


Music Notes

by MulticoloredRosePetals



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 48
Words: 60,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27560074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulticoloredRosePetals/pseuds/MulticoloredRosePetals
Summary: Christine, pessimistic after her father's death, leaves a letter for the Phantom. Shocking them both, he replies. But when the fabric of order and security begins to unravel in the Opera House, our characters find themselves at the forefront of mystery. E/C and R/M. Erik is Kay/Dance-based but everything/everyone else ALW-based.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Meg Giry
Comments: 311
Kudos: 184





	1. Christine

"Christine Daae, don't say that."

I glanced sidelong at Meg Giry as we both stood in the dressing room we shared, putting our hair up before we even dared to apply makeup. She was watching me in the mirror, bringing her small hands down from the top of her head, her golden hair now tied high and long. My own brown curls were a bit more of a nightmare to deal with, and it took a fair few tries to actually get all of it together. Nothing new, of course - this was my nightly struggle.

"Don't say what, Meg?" My hair continued not to cooperate. "That phantoms are not real?"

She scoffed and turned to me. Brown-eyed, delicate, and extremely pretty, she looked every bit the prima ballerina that she was. No surprises there. Her mother was the ballet instructor. I heard whispers sometimes from the other girls that the only reason she had the role of prima ballerina was the connection to her mother; and, although I supposed this played a role, I also believed her to be one of the best among us.

"Christine," she said, "Mama says anyone who dares insult the Phantom are bound for death. Do you want to die, Christine?"

And now I was reminded of her age. Sixteen. Young, gullible, often silly - as I no doubt had been. Twenty years old isn't necessarily sage and wise, but a twenty-year-old believing in such nonsense would have made me avert my gaze in second-hand embarrassment. I was twenty. I couldn't foster such fancies. I had to be the adult.

Ever since my father died, I'd had to be an adult. Too fast, I think.

He'd told me that he'd send me the Angel of Music, but the moment he died, the moment my fifteen-year-old mind processed that he was truly gone from this world, my belief in that faded. I believed in angels, but I didn't believe angels walked the Earth.

And neither, really, did phantoms.

"Meg, darling, I truly-dash it all!" My hair broke yet another tie. I was rapidly starting to run low. I was running low on patience as well.

"Here, Christine, let me." She went behind me with one of her own ties. She was slightly shorter than I was, but had no trouble pulling all of my hair up with gentle dexterity. I gripped the edge of the dressing table and watched myself in the mirror. My blue eyes, my entire face, watched me with more of a scowl than I thought I currently wore. I forced myself to soften my expression. My reflection followed into a state of neutrality.

"Why would this...Phantom care how I talk about him?" I asked her as she worked.

It wasn't that I didn't know the rumors of the Phantom - it was that I chose to ignore the talks of them. Why was everyone at this theatre so incredibly hell-bent on believing this foolishness? I knew most theatres had a ghost of some sort, a spooky tale to scare the chorus girls, but the way these people spoke of the Phantom was to an unhealthy level. Many even claimed to have seen him. Each with a tale of their own of what he looked like.

Meg was no exception.

"Because," she explained patiently, "he demands respect."

"He sounds like a charmer, demanding respect."

"Oh, he's not charming." She pulled on my hair. My neck muscles worked so as not to allow my head to be snapped entirely back. "He's supposedly quite..." She paused, and leaned in to whisper in my ear. "He's supposedly quite ugly."

"Oh, I've heard. Joseph Buquet says it all the time." I recited the words I'd heard a hundred times as the tactless man tried to flirt with us with frightening tales: "Like yellow parchment is his skin; a great black hole serves as the nose that never grew." Even those words left an acrid taste in my mouth. Not necessarily because I was disgusted by the description, but because Joseph Buquet made me feel...off, somehow. The way he looked at us. How he made to touch the bare arms of the ballerinas without asking permission. Like he was the ghost stalking the girls, not the Phantom.

"And his lasso," she added

"Yes," I agreed. "Again, a charming ghost."

She sighed, finally finishing. I fingered my hair behind my head. As usual, expertly done. "You don't believe it," she said lowly.

"I don't." I smiled at her, leaned in, and kissed her cheek. "But you continue believing, Meg. Don't be like me - a sour old maid."

"You're not an old maid." She crossed her arms.

"I'm one of the oldest girls in the ballet. And the ones older than me have lovers. Do I have lovers?"

"That's entirely your doing, Christine. You're lacking lovers, yes, but it's through no fault of the men. You turn away every pursuer who comes your way." She grinned suddenly. "Perhaps you'd say yes to the Phantom."

I did scowl now. Intentionally.

"Think about it, Christine!" He eyes danced with laughter. "You clearly do not appreciate earthly men, so perhaps it will take someone of the supernatural persuasion to charm you."

"I just made clear how little I found this Phantom charming, Meg."

"Oh, but you have not yet met him!"

"And I never will. Now come, Meg, our makeup awaits us."

I forced her to turn from me and toward the mirror. I shushed her with my forefinger when she attempted to speak again. However, when she saw that my hands were occupied with powder and a brush, she opened her mouth once again.

"I will make you a deal," she said with her head high, playful haughtiness in her eyes.

"A deal?" I said, glancing again at her reflection.

"Yes." She slowly applied blush. "You leave a letter for the Phantom tonight in Box Five - his box, as you know, and one that he visits every night after the theatre darkens, according to Mama - and see if he doesn't reply. If he doesn't, I will never speak of the Phantom with you again. If he does..." She shrugged, smiling. "You must entertain the topic with me."

I shook my head, closing the powder case. "And how will I know it's not the box-keeper? Or you?"

"I swear on my soul," she insisted, applying blush to the other cheek, "that I will not respond to the letter. And besides, you know my handwriting. You know Mama's. You'll be able to recognize the difference."

"Hmm." I smiled slightly. "And what if it is someone else that responds?"

"We will leave last. I will tell Mama that you are leaving him an offering."

I considered this. If no letter arrived, then she'd at last stop trying to change my mind about this Phantom. And if a letter did arrive, then I could claim that none did and toss the ridiculous thing away. She would, of course, fight me on the fact that one did come - and there would be my proof that she had the thing planted. There really wasn't any downside to this.

I stood up straight and looked at myself in the mirror, at the near-constant bags that makeup could not seem to hide. At the too-stern, too-cold features - all of the warmth that was taken by my father's death.

If she wanted to believe in these fantasies, it was fine. I wouldn't steal that from her. But I wouldn't let her make me believe in something when nothing existed. I wouldn't let anyone make me feel hope when the world was hopeless. It wasn't fair to force me to tear down my glass walls when they were the only thing keeping the monsoon from washing me away.

Anything to make her let me be.

"Deal," I whispered.


	2. Erik

The ripples in the water, created by the passing of the boat, were an indication that I was real. Flesh and blood, made of matter. And not a ghost.

They were proof that I had an impact on the world, that my existence created some kind of reaction, even if I were to never travel to the surface again. The truth was that, should I never make myself known to the above world, should I never leave my notes of recommendation for the managers of the Opera House, I would simply fade from existence. No one would ever know.

No one would ever care.

Except, perhaps, the water. The still-as-glass lake water that depended on my boat to cause it movement. To give it life.

I watched this movement, that life, those ripples as I stood upon the gondola, pushing myself forward with the oar. The lantern hanging off the front was the only source of light here; but even without it, I could have found my way to shore. I'd travelled between my underground house to the winding staircases thousands of times. I could do it thousands more with my eyes closed.

Upon reaching the shore, I may as well have left the lantern behind, for I could have found my way to the surface blind as well. For all of the twists and turns and false entrances and dead ends, I knew the place by heart.

I'd built it, after all.

But light was a convenience. A comforting weight in my gloved hands.

The only problem was that, in the light, any poor soul who accidentally found his way toward my hidden passageways was sure to pale at the sight of me. I knew how ungodly tall and thin I was; I knew of the stark white mask that didn't cover my mismatched eyes, my sharp-angled chin. The black clothes that didn't hide my gaunt limbs. I looked cold. Mean. Whether those things were true was quite beside the point.

Perhaps they were true. Perhaps, after years of solitude, they'd become true.

I ascended. Between the walls of the theatre, under the floors.

And twenty minutes later, I emerged into Box Five. My box. My own personal piece of the theatre, payment for my contribution toward its construction. That, and twenty thousand francs a month.

Reasonable, I think.

I just hoped that the new management thought so, too. Lefevre has been so good about paying my salary promptly. Gille Andre and Richard Firmin had been managers for a total of three days now, and so far, they seemed like absolute morons.

Businessmen with no taste in art, no ear for music. They had no right to be anywhere but some stuffy old office, bickering the way they did over the price of goods to sell, not opera.

I took my place in my usual spot in the box, in the last row of seats, on the far left side. The lantern was hung on a hook I had nailed into the wall of the box. I found the acoustics to be quite lovely from here, and the view of the stage was nice as well. In my opinion, the best seat in the house.

I reached underneath the seat to pull out my copy of Shakespeare's Macbeth - in the original English, of course - and felt, before my gloved fingers touched the book, something flat instead. Flat paper.

An envelope.

Intrigued, I picked it up and drew it out, looking at it in the yellow lanternlight.

To His Ghostliness, the addressee read.

I smirked. Who could this be from? Madame Giry trying to be witty in her messages to me?

But the fact that it had no sender information gave me pause. She normally signed all of her letters with her name. And she left them in the empty dressing room. This was certainly not like her.

I took off my glove, placing it on my lap, and pushed my thumb underneath the flap of the envelope. It didn't tear; it opened cleanly. I pulled out the folded paper inside and read.

\-----

Dear Phantom,

Let me simply get the point. I know you aren't real. You know you aren't real. In fact, if anyone is reading this right now, it is Meg Giry. Hell, Meg. I hope this letter finds you well. See? I told you phantoms are not real.

But let's say, just for a moment, just to entertain the idea, that you do exist. Tell me this: why make yourself so known? Why not enjoy death as peacefully as you can, rather than spook the theatre's staff? What joy do you get? Are you a malicious ghost? As far as I am concerned, no one has perished at your hands, though the rumors of your supposed cruelty are quite rampant.

Anyway, it's late and this is silly. I will end my letter here.

I just cannot wait to get no reply from you.

And don't even try changing your handwriting, Meg, to look differently. I won't believe it anyway.

Kind and doubtful regards

-Christine D.

\-----

I lowered the letter.

Christine D.

That name sounded vaguely familiar. Was she a ballet girl? If she was friends with Meg - I assumed this to be the little Giry girl - then she probably was.

I looked back down at the paper.

Didn't believe in the Phantom, eh?

Well.

I simply had to write back.

And that thought surprised me. I never interacted with anyone but Madame Giry, who passed on all of my letters to the managers. But this was too fascinating to pass up. Even if she didn't believe it was from me - which, from the wording of her letter, she no doubt wouldn't - then it would be great fun watching her bicker with the prima ballerina over the true author of my reply.

I stood, unhooked the lantern, and decided my visit to the surface would be short this time.

Leaving a lady's message without response was rude, after all.


	3. Raoul

"And how, pray tell, are the ladies of fair London?"

I cracked a smile. "Fairer than London."

Albert grinned back, while Julien, the one who'd asked the question, laughed. It was my first week back from London, where I'd been studying. Last summer, a year ago to the date, I'd begged my brother to let me study in England. A seventeenth-birthday-present to me. I wanted to go abroad, I said. He allowed it.

I lasted one year then returned.

I missed Paris too much. I missed my friends.

So now my friends and I celebrated by toasting my eighteenth birthday at one of the nicer pubs in the city.

"So, Vicomte de Chagny," continued Julien, "what are your first orders of business now that you're back in town?"

"I do want to continue my schooling," I said, swirling what was left of my beer around in its glass mug. "I simply want to continue it right here."

"And leave your estate behind?" asked Albert. "With all its comforts? It's an hour's ride from your brother's house to the heart of Paris."

"Yes, I plan to find lodgings here," I responded, and took a sip of my drink. "It will mean I am closer to you two, as well. We can go drinking every night, if we wish."

Albert and Julien Martin, twin brothers with shocks of white-blond hair and bright blue, had parents that were friends with my brother. The Martins were not aristocracy like we were, but rather very wealthy from good investments. Philippe, my brother, had met their father at a party in the city when we were all very young.

"Well don't make us hate the idea of you living here, Raoul." Julien nudged my side. "Closer to us? Why on Earth would we want that."

I pushed him. He nearly fell off his stool. Albert sniggered.

"Won't you miss all of those lovely English women?" asked Julien.

"I must say, I prefer the women of Paris. Not so...prudish."

"Oh, but that shouldn't be an issue for you!" said Julien.

"Yes, we both know of your burning wish to find a virginal bride as soon as humanly possible."

I made a face of disgust, and they both laughed. "God, no."

"Your brother won't be very happy that you don't want to continue the family line." Julien finished his drink. He waved over the bartender. "At least, not legitimately."

"Right. Because Philippe has room to talk." At nearly forty years of age, my brother still had not married. No heirs to his estate. Except, of course, for me. That was fine by me. Many people often mistook me for his son, anyway. Brown-eyed and sandy-haired, we were very handsome, if I did say so myself. "And because the two of you have room to talk, either."

"I will have you know," said Albert, "that I am currently courting a lovely young women I met at the summer gala at the Paris Opera. Her brother was in Faust." He looked at me then, eyes alight. "Speaking of which, Julien and I found you a birthday gift."

"Oh?" I said as Julien grinned widely. He went into his pockets at Albert's nod and pulled out a thick strip of paper. He handed it to me.

"Hannibal by Chalumeau." I groaned. "Oh, for God's sake..."

"Surprise!" exclaimed Julien. "Opera!"

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, we are." Albert.

"If there's one thing you love more than the idea of marriage," said Julien, "it's the idea of sitting through a three-hour opera."

"Nonstop singing."

"Over-the-top acting."

"Tragic writing."

"Plots that often don't make sense."

"It will be brilliant."

"It will be a nightmare, lads." I pocketed the ticket. "Thank you for the thoughtfulness. My happiness was clear in your consideration of the gift."

"Chin up, Raoul." We were finished with our drinks. Albert pulled out his wallet. "Look on the bright side. Those ballet girls are always a pleasure to behold."


	4. Christine

"And where are you off to this early in the morning?"

I turned from where I stood at the kitchen counter, spreading a bit of butter and jam on toasted bread. Madame Giry was watching me from the kitchen doorway, a knowing look on her face. Pencil-thin eyebrows and even thinner lips, nose as sharp as the constant glint in her eyes, she looked more like a governess than dance instructor.

I smiled in return. "I merely wanted to get some extra practice in before rehearsals began this afternoon." I finished spreading butter and jam on the bread and brought it to the small dining table against the wall. Madame Giry's apartment was by no means tiny - but space was still limited in its one-story four-room confines.

"Dear girl, you know I don't believe that for a second." She followed me to the table, where I sat and took a bite. I looked at her as she put her hands on her hips.

I swallowed my food. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Don't belittle my intelligence, Christine. We both know you don't believe in the Phantom and would like to prove my daughter wrong."

"Pray tell, Madame, how my early arrival would prove her wrong."

"You were the last soul out of the theatre yesterday and will now be the first today. Logic dictates that, should there be no Phantom, there will no letter. If Meg gets there before you, then there will be a letter - a forged one. Am I correct?"

"You've pinned me down expertly." I took another bite. "And what of it?"

"Why don't you believe?" She crossed her arms. "Everyone else does."

"Because ghosts are not real."

"No," she said, "I suppose they are not. At least, not the ones who make our walls and floors go bump in the night."

I raised my brows and put my breakfast down. "Are you implying other types of ghosts do exist?" The corners of her lips tilted upward. "Rather morbidly cryptic for nine in the morning, Madame?"

She laughed and went to me, giving me a peck on the top of my head. Since my father's death, Madame Giry had all but adopted me as her second daughter. "If you do mean to practice this morning," she said, "please work on the dance routine we discussed - the one in the second act. It needs polishing - you are not quite tight enough. I look forward to seeing your progress."

"Yes, Madame. Of course."

\- - - - - - - - - -

Monsieur Lefevre had treated Madame Giry as though she were a partner in management - because, quite honestly, she was. The cast listened to her much more often than they listened to him. He was perfectly fine with that. Easy and laissez-faire, Lefevre had been considered the perfect manager to the hearts and minds of many of my coworkers.

When he left, the new managers Andre and Firmin sensed right away a bristling in the spoiled coats of the employees. The men clearly wanted to be on our good side - and they knew, as well, how respected Madame was. So when they discovered that she had not one, but two, master keys, they pursed their lips, clenched their fists, and smiled.

I was now using one of those keys to unlock the theatre's backstage door. I switched on the lights and found my dressing room. I quickly changed into my dance clothes and made my way to the stage - I switched on a few of the house lights as well.

And then, of course, I made my way to Box Five.

I'd hidden my letter under the seat, where only a true ghost would sense it. I wasn't sure that this logic - that ghosts would sense hidden objects - was entirely sound, but if others could make up information about this Phantom, then I could do. And my Phantom had a nose for things out of sight.

I checked under the seat and - ah yes. There it was. My letter. I could feel it there with my fingertips. I pulled it out-

Oh.

This wasn't my letter.

No, this envelope had very different handwriting than mine, and it had my name on it.

Even more jarring, it was sealed in red wax, the image of a skull pressed into it.

My brows furrowed. Had Meg told someone about my little test? If so, who? I'd watched Madame lock the theatre, so unless the managers were in on the joke, there was no one else-

No. No, that would be unprofessional, and they struck me as men with heads very much on their shoulders.

In fact, they looked baffled at the mention of the ghost as it was. Wait, I told myself, just wait until they learn of his supposed salary - though, to be honest, I think that this was simply a practical joke on Lefevre's part. Poor man lost twenty thousand francs a month to the Phantom, yet still managed to afford to pay us generous salaries and pay himself an even prettier pouch of coins.

Right.

I hoped that Andre and Firmin were more sensible.

But still, that didn't answer the question of who left this envelope.

Quickly, I opened it up and pulled out very high-quality paper, with midnight-black ink writing on it. I read.

\-----

Dearest Christine D.,

What a wonderful treat! I must tell you, I rarely receive post. And it really is a disappointment - I am an absolute delight, you see, so the lack of communication via mail is a terrible shock.

I think, perhaps, it may have something to do with the fact that I live on a paranormal plane of existence, beyond human reach or comprehension.

But I digress.

I gather from your letter that you do not believe in me. Ah, how regretful. Why do you doubt my existence?

Oh!

I know!

Perhaps I could prove it to you!

You know those brand new curtains that our managers Tweedledee and Tweedledum purchased yesterday? The ones that were only just installed and were working wonderfully last night - those ones? Well, I say it would be an absolute shame if they simply refused to cooperate during Act Two's rehearsal this afternoon.

Oh, yes, how terrible it would be for them to be stuck, starting at...oh, let's think...twelve-forty-five? I don't want it to happen too late. I lunch around one-thirty and want to watch at least a little of the chaos that will ensue.

Well, it was wonderful chatting! But I really must be off. I have ghostly matters to attend to. Walls don't ooze by themselves, you know!

Your Obedient Servant,

O.G.

\------

I looked at the signature. It took a moment for me to recognize what it stood for. I assumed that its writer had slipped up and actually signed it with their name - and then I realized.

Opera Ghost.

I shook my head.

Whoever left it clearly thought themselves humorous.

I took the letter with me and put it with my belongings, hidden under everything else, in the dressing room. Then I went to the stage to lose myself in dance for an hour before Madame arrived.

\- - - - - - - - - -

I focused as best I could on the placement of my feet. I focused on the music and its flow, and how my body was supposed to move. I paid attention - full attention - to Madame's commanding voice.

There was no Phantom. No, this was a joke. A prank. A ruse to get me chilly, to get me distracted, waiting for a perceived disaster.

"Excellent! Good work!" Maestro called. I lowered my arms and brought my legs together from my ending pose, breathing hard along with all of the other ballet girls. He called to Buquet. "Close the curtains, man. That is your cue! Come now, we open in two weeks!"

"Apologies, Monsieur, but we are trying!" he shouted back. "The damn thing won't budge."

I blinked. I turned to Meg. "What did he say?"

"The curtain is stuck." She looked at me, inclining her head. "Are you sure that you never received anything back from the Phantom?"

The curtain was stuck.

"I'm sure," I whispered. But before I could hear Meg say I that I didn't sound very certain, I looked away from her.

I moved forward a bit as the managers left their seats in the house and went onto the stage, yelling that they simply weren't pulling the ropes hard enough - listening, as well, as Buquet growled that pulling any harder would topple the whole stage in on itself.

"Maestro?" I said softly.

He stopped his alternation between looking at the composition in front of him and the mess of shouts onstage, and focused his eyes on me. "Yes, Madamoiselle Daae."

"What is the time?"

He pulled out his pocket-watch quickly, putting it away the moment it was out. "Twelve-forty-six."

\- - - - - - - - - - -

Dear Phantom,

All right.

Well played.

I still don't think you are a ghost.

Perhaps you are Joseph Buquet - since you were clearly in on the curtain's malfunction.

Perhaps you are even Meg or Madame - but I can't see either of them sabotaging a rehearsal for giggles at my expense. I don't see the managers pulling this, either. They bought the curtain, after all.

So who are you?

Yes, I believe you are real. You. The writer. You are flesh and blood.

But I refuse to believe you are ethereal.

(P.S. Where did you find that wax seal? Personal friends with Poe?)

Christine D.


	5. Erik

I gazed down at her latest letter. At the post-script she'd left.

'Where did you find that wax seal? Personal friends with Poe?'

The first time I'd read it, I'd smirked and left it at that. But now, that little phrase was occupying my mind. Not because it was particularly funny - it wasn't - but because of the utter cheekiness of it.

Here she now knew, or at least very strongly suspected, that I was not Meg or Madame Giry, and still she had the nerve to wear a strong attitude.

In short, she wasn't afraid.

I wrote her back in the wee hours of the morning, long after I'd identified and watched her in yesterday's rehearsal, long after I'd found her response in Box Five.

\-----

Dearest Christine,

No, I'm not Meg. Or Madame Giry.

But really Christine! How dare you imply I am either of the managers? And Good Lord - I must insist that I am most certainly not Joseph Buquet. I did not take you for one to insult the intelligence of others, but...my God, woman.

Ah well - worry not. I will let your faux pas slide.

I unfortunately cannot divulge who, exactly, I am. But tell me, my dear, why on Earth do you not believe in ghosts? Why not let your fancies fly and simply give in? I know the temptation to simply believe when everyone else does must be unbearable. Why hold on the way you do?

Looking forward to your reply,

O.G.

\-----

I put the pen down, and as I did, my Siamese cat Ayesha hopped onto the desk with a chirping meow. I smiled and ran my fingers down her spine as she purred and stretched in pleasure, diamond collar dangling from her neck.

"I will be back, my darling," I said to her, and put on my mask. "I must run this letter up to the surface."

With that, I placed the paper into an envelope, sealed it in the red wax that Christine so appreciated, and rose from my chair.

\- - - - - - - - - -

I had to admit, with a bit of surprise, that I found Christine to be quite lovely.

In fact, I think I found her to be the loveliest of the ballet girls.

I'd never truly given those girls much consideration - I'd long since learned not to focus too long on the beauty of women, or I'd find loneliness creep in, and we could not have that. But now that she'd caught my attention, I could not help it. She now had my eye, and I could not deny how...well, how very pretty she was. Long brown curls, bright blue eyes that sparkled even from the distance between us, and a wide, glowing smile when she was praised or knew instinctually she'd done well dancing.

I did not allow my eyes to linger long each time. I certainly wouldn't want to be stared at. But when I wasn't paying attention to the direction of my own gaze, I found that it had once again landed on her.

And I'd quickly look somewhere else. Hidden away in Box Five, or in the rafters, or under the floors, I told myself to simply forget I'd ever seen her. Pretend I had no idea which girl she was, and associated her name only to the letters she left.

Another side effect I found was the absolute itch I felt all day to at last receive her response. We had only corresponded these few times, and already I was eagerly awaiting a letter like some silly schoolboy expecting a birthday parcel from his parents.

When the time came to check underneath the seat for her envelope, I grinned with delight at finding it there. I opened it up and read.

\-----

Dear Phantom,

Are you implying that merely because everyone else believes something, I should too? That sounds extremely conformist of you - not something I would expect of an otherworldly being of chaos.

Anyway, my apologies for attempting to narrow down who exactly you might be. No, I suppose you are not Joseph Buquet. According to Madame Giry, he does not have a key, and he left before I did - without leaving a letter (I checked). I was the last to leave. Nothing there under the seat. I'm sitting in "your box", in fact, as I write this, using a rather large book as a lap desk.

Honestly, I can't tell if Madame Giry's allowance of me leaving last is her attempt to convince me of your existence - or why she'd care at all. I do know she is the one to pass on your notes to the managers, but she seems far too practical to believe in fanciful tales.

Which brings me to your next question - why do I not believe in ghosts?

Because the notion is ridiculous.

I believe in souls and Angels. I do not believe those things exist on Earth. I think there is a clear separation between the ethereal world and the physical one.

The fact that my father never sent me the Angel of Music is proof enough of that.

Best,

Christine D.

\-----

I did not hesitate to respond immediately. Like she had, I'd brought pen and paper here to write this time.

\-----

Dearest Christine,

Madame Giry is a wonderful woman - but I will not comment on what she does and does not believe. That is her business.

Now, what exactly is this Angel of Music you speak of? I am curious. Please do tell.

Your very curious ghostly servant,

O.G.

\-----

The next day was a blur of working on music in my home and making my rounds through the hidden places of the theatre. But I was not truly able to concentrate on any of it.

No, I really do think I was becoming a bit obsessed with these letters.

I had to remind myself to calm down. That these notes would eventually come to an end (surely this wouldn't go on forever - she'd eventually find the activity dull and cease her letter-writing); but in the meantime, I could enjoy it.

Enjoy it but pace myself. Remember that other matters demanded my attention. The quality of the theatre's productions for example.

The quality of the ballet, in particular.

No.

No, the ballet was fine. Leave the ballet alone.

There was absolutely nothing special about the ballet. Focus on...the orchestra. Yes. Good. The orchestra.

The violinist could tune his instrument a bit.

The man playing the flute was slightly flat during that one section.

The maestro's form wasn't quite tight enough as he directed his musicians.

But Christine, it seemed, was dancing with all the grace of a warm summer breeze, lifting leaves from the ground and making them rise and fall with the wind.

Stop.

Focus. Focus somewhere else.

\- - - - - - - - - -

I tore her envelope open and dived into her response.

\-----

Dear Phantom,

The Angel of Music is a fantasy. It doesn't exist.

My father died and said he would send the Angel to me. But he never did.

So I refuse to believe in anything that is not concrete or strictly in the Bible. Because if anything else did exist, it would mean that he lied to me.

And, forgive me, I cannot handle the idea of that.

Christine D.

\-----

My chest felt heavy. But it wasn't pity. It was compassion.

I knew exactly what it was like not to believe.

I was careful, this time, in my response.

Careful, even as I knew my next word choices were an incredible risk.

\-----

Dearest Christine,

My condolences.

I mean that truly.

I must admit that I do not believe in anything at all. Not in anything that cannot be detected by the senses. I stopped believing in God a long time ago.

It's true.

I am not a ghost.

But try not to let that secret escape you.

Sincerely yours,

Erik


	6. Meg

Christine, for all intents and purposes, was my sister. The only thing that didn't bind us was blood. We shared the same apartment, stayed up late telling one another ridiculous and fantastical stories, and swore to always be there when the other needed.

But there were parts of me she didn't know. Parts of me no one, especially my mother, knew.

No one except for Isabelle Garneau.

Isabelle was my age. Sixteen. And the newest member of the ballet. But unlike me, no one looked to her to know what she was doing. No one looked to her, one of the youngest dancers, for guidance. When they didn't look to my mother, they looked to me.

Sometimes I loved the attention. The spotlight.

Other times, I felt their eyes and words like windowless walls around me. I felt their criticisms - their comments. Their cutting opinions that said that the only reason I was Prima Ballerina was because the choreographer was my mother.

And maybe they were right. But I needed to prove them wrong. I had to.

It was the only thing that mattered.

Every single mistake sliced like a butter knife - dull and persistent and unending. They stayed with me long after rehearsals and performances. I thought about them nonstop. Why had I done that? Why hadn't I done this? Why was I such a failure? Why why why-

I couldn't let anyone know what went on in my head. No one could know. It was just one more weakness. One more reason for them to say how I didn't deserve my position.

But one day I couldn't hold it in. I'd tripped - tripped! - while doing a simple plie. How? How had that been possible? How did one trip and fall doing a plie?

I'd excused myself to my dressing room, telling my mother that I was feeling faint and merely needed to sit down for a moment. To refresh myself. I told her that I hadn't gotten much sleep - but that I would be back as soon as I could.

No one saw the tears start to form in my eyes as I kept my head down.

No one except Isabelle.

I went to the dressing room, heart beating fast. Every step I took as I paced was a drum beat. Stu-pid. Stu-pid. Stu-pid. And when I really did feel faint, breath coming in and out quickly, I finally rested my hands on the counter and looked at myself in the mirror.

"Come now, Meg," I said to my reflection, trying to smile. Smile. Smile. Smile like you always do. "Come now. It's not so-"

But my voice broke into a silent sob, and tears did fall.

"It's all right," I told myself. "It's all right. You're all right."

A knock sounded at the dressing room.

"I'm busy!" I called, wincing at the waver in my voice.

"Meg?" Isabelle's voice. "Meg, can I speak to you?"

I huffed, shaking my head, squeezing my eyes tight. "Is it important?"

A pause, then her voice was small. "Yes."

I wiped at my eyes frantically, tried to slow my heartbeat, and opened the door. There Isabelle stood, chestnut-haired and green-eyed, freckles dotting her nose. She was very pretty. All of the ballet girls were very pretty.

"What is it?" I whispered. "Is it my mother?"

She shook her head. "No." She bit her lip. "I just...I saw you crying."

I reddened. "So?"

She blinked. "So..."

"So what? You've never seen anyone cry before?" I tried to sound strong, but the words came out shaky and low. Tears sprang to my eyes again.

Oh no. Not now. Not in front of-

She reached out her arms and hugged me. I froze, though the tears still came.

"I know what it's like to want to be perfect," she said. "I know that's what this is about. I see your frustration every time you mess up - which isn't often, Meg. It's all right."

At that, I hugged her back. She let me cry into her shoulder.

But even as I did, I couldn't stop hearing the words in my ears.

Weak.

Pathetic.

Imperfect.

\- - - - - - - - - -

After that, for the next three months, I shared a knowing hug or look or smile with Isabelle. She came out of her meek shell with me, and we began to laugh. Talk. Go out for breakfast. Christine understood when I chose the other girl's company over hers - she was happy that I made another friend.

I told Isabelle that she was the only person who really understood me. That I didn't feel like I had to be constantly positive with her. That I could be weak.

She told me that I was never weak.

"Showing vulnerability isn't weak," she told me over coffee. "It's brave."

\- - - - - - - - - -

It had been a week, now, since Christine promised to write a letter to the Phantom.

I don't know why she didn't believe, when there was so much evidence as to his existence. Mama herself believed - she even corresponded with him. But Christine had always been a bit funny. Too grown-up. Introspective. Cold, sometimes. But always warm with me.

She'd insisted he never wrote back, and now seemed to want to drop the subject. I kept my word. I wouldn't discuss it with her anymore.

I tried to strike up a conversation with her about something else - anything else. But she was lost in thought. She'd begin to be present for a conversation, then would drift away, looking toward Box Five.

Strange. That was where the Phantom sat.

I questioned her on that, and she put up a wall of denial.

"I wasn't looking at Box Five, Meg," she insisted. "I was just...looking away."

I shrugged and left her there. I would go and search for Isabelle instead, if she wanted to be so in-her-head.

But I couldn't find her.

Twenty minutes to the start of rehearsal, and she wasn't here?

Mama wouldn't be pleased.

I waited.

Fifteen minutes till.

Ten minutes.

Five.

When there was only a single minute to spare, I felt anxiety grow in my stomach. Where was she?

Was she ill?

She was certainly not one to skip a rehearsal without a note. The last time she'd had a cold, her mother had given a letter in person to excuse her from practice.

"Mama," I said quietly, before dancing could begin, walking right up to her, "Where is Isabelle?"

My mother raised her thin eyebrows and scanned her dancers. I saw in her eyes the realization that - yes - indeed one was missing. Concern and annoyance.

"I don't know."

\- - - - - - - - - -

One day gone was, apparently, not much cause for concern.

Two days was a bit of an irritation.

But three days, as well as a frantic Madame Garneau, was enough to spook the company.

She'd been waiting outside the theatre, wanting to come in. One of the lighting technicians, who'd gone outside for a smoke, had been the one to let her inside the theatre.

I'd met Isabelle's mother only once before. A plump, kind-faced woman, she now looked entirely out of her mind.

"Where is she?" she begged from the house of the theatre, as Monsieur Firmin approached her, hands up in a gesture that was meant to be calming. "She hasn't been home in half a week. Where is my baby?"

"Madame, I do not-"

"She left no note. No goodbye." Her lower lip trembled. "I've asked all of my neighbors, all of her old friends." She finally looked at me. "Meg. You spend time with her. Does she...are there any gentlemen she spends time with? Anyone at all she may have run off with?"

I shook my head, my stomach in a tight, uncomfortable knot. "No, Madame. She never mentioned one to me."

"Then where is she?" Madame Garneau near-shrieked. "For all I know, she could be dead in the gutter!-"

"Come, Madame," said Firmin calmly. "Let us talk outside."

I felt bile want to rise. I looked around at the rest of the dancers and singers and even the orchestra. Everyone had the same round-eyed, surprised expression. We all realized the same thing. The same very obvious thought that no one wanted to acknowledge out loud.

Isabelle was missing.


	7. Raoul

I clinked my glass of wine against Julien's.

"I'm glad for the endless bottles," he said, and took a drink. Indeed, the party's host, Madame Devereaux, had a seemingly bottomless supply of champagne for her dozens of guests, who were spread throughout the lavish, gold-walled ballroom, to enjoy. The ceiling, like the one in my brother's estate ballroom, was expertly painted, depicting a courtyard of a faraway land. White curtains were pulled back, revealing the darkness of Paris in the evening, and above the windows were bright lamps that illuminated the space like sunlight itself.

And the girls. The people. Everywhere. Laughing and talking about utter nonsense. Silliness. Unimportant matters - for example, during the cocktail hour before dinner, the nonstop self-important talk of philanthropy. Since I was a child, I'd always rolled my eyes at this social custom - as if any of my peers actually gave a damn about the poor.

As if they cared about anything other than themselves.

I was glad for the wine in my hand. I was never able to get through social affairs without imbibing.

Julien didn't know that, of course - God, no. And I'd never tell him. He merely assumed it was all part of the fun. An asset.

Not a crutch.

I took a long drink of my wine as well. Two more of these and I would be ready to talk to someone, anyone, except for Julien.

Unfortunate, really, that Albert was spending the night with his...lady. I had to remember to call her that. A lady. Julien and I would tease her behind her back, calling her not just lady - but lady of the night. It wasn't her fault - I was sure she was a lovely girl. But she'd started to steal my friend and Julien's brother away with her charms and beauty. It was though she wanted him all to herself.

"Not that I'm sure why," Julien would muse, giving his crooked grin. "He's certainly nothing special."

I wondered if Julien was jealous.

But then, I would make similar comments, so that would mean I was jealous.

Which I was not.

I took another long drink.

If I wished, I could get any girl I wanted. I had the face for it. The wit. I simply-

I simply didn't want it.

I finished my wine. I left Julien's company momentarily and went to the ballroom's bar. When I reached the counter, the band in the corner began to play, and people clapped, coupling up. I ignored the noise and asked the servant for another glass. He happily obliged.

I went to go find Julien, but he was gone from our spot against the wall.

No, I saw, looking around the room. He'd found a well-endowed young woman with pinned-up auburn hair, and was currently giving her all of his attention. He said something, quirking his lip. She threw her head back and laughed. He bowed and held out his hand to her. She gave a coy smile and took it.

And the traitor stepped onto the dance floor with his new friend.

I scowled.

Fine.

I'd drink by myself.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Over the course of the hour, a few girls walked up to me, suggesting in the clever, hidden way that women do that they wanted to dance. I did what I always did - I changed the subject. The weather. Mathematics. Taxes.

And if those conversations didn't deter them, then I'd talk about how beautiful her sister across the room was. Or her friend. Or I'd talk about my nonexistent fiancée.

Eventually, one of these did the trick.

The thing was, I did like the attention. I did. I liked being desired - but the concept of actually trying to woo a girl sent shivers of anxiety down my spine. Made sweat break out on my forehead.

Women in London expected me to do all the talking.

Fat chance at that when I could barely hold a conversation with girls as it was. Didn't want to, at least. Didn't like talking to anyone, men included, except those I was already comfortable with, those who already knew me. My two friends. My brother. That was all I needed.

So I don't believe I spoke to a single woman in England. Not one.

I didn't make any friends either.

London was lovely. It was. I liked it, more than I cared to admit.

It was me who was the problem. I was always the problem.

I finished my second glass.

I'd stand here the rest of the night, alone.

Julien, the bastard. He'd said we were going together, that we'd ignore women and simply drink ourselves stupid.

Albert would have held his promise. He wouldn't have left to go dancing with strangers.

Of course, Albert no longer needed to. He had a pretty little thing on his arm now.

I leaned my head back against the wall.

And the moment I saw a girl walking my way, I beelined for the bar.

A third glass would do quite nicely right about now.


	8. Christine

Meg, I often had to remind myself, was still a child.

Sixteen was old enough to marry. It was old enough to bear children. But it was also young enough that when I saw her sitting on her bed, clutching a small blue blanket in her arms, her face in its soft fabric...I was not terribly surprised.

I was even less surprised after today's news at the Opera.

I cleared my throat in the doorway and knocked. Normally, there was no need - this was my bedroom too. But if she needed privacy, I would not intrude.

She looked up. When she saw me, a small smile played at her pink lips. I smiled in return.

"You can enter, Christine," she said softly. "I'd like the company."

I nodded and walked in, closing the door behind me. I was about to sit on my own bed, but she slid over where she sat and patted the space next to her. I accepted the invitation. Once I was beside her, she laid her head on my shoulder. I put my head on top of hers. I felt and heard her sigh.

"I know, love." I found her hand and squeezed it.

"Where the devil could she be?" she whispered. "Where could Isabelle have gone?"

"I don't know, Meg." I wished I did. I would have moved Heaven and Earth to see her smile again. I would rescue the girl myself if I knew Isabelle's whereabouts. "She really didn't say anything about...anyone? A lover? Strange friends? Anything."

"No," she breathed. "She didn't. I promise."

I pursed my lips. "It's so..."

"Terrible. It's terrible." She squeezed my hand again. "I keep picturing her mother's face. I couldn't imagine being in her position. If I think I'm frightened, I think of her mother's feelings, and..."

"I know."

I lifted my head and looked at the window. Dusk. And Isabelle was out there somewhere, hopefully alive, as night was fast approaching.

I thought, then, that I heard a knock at the apartment door. I lifted my head. "Did you hear that?"

She lifted her head as well. "Yes."

Madame's low voice, unintelligible. A man's voice, vaguely familiar. Meg and I looked at one another. We never received guests this late. We certainly never received male guests this late. In tandem, we rose from the bed, Meg dropping the blanket to the sheets. I took her hand and we walked to the bedroom door, peeking out, her head underneath mine.

Madame Giry was welcoming in Monsieur Firmin, one of the managers, into the apartment. He removed his hat and placed it on a hook by the door.

"Tea, Monsieur?"

"Please, Madame," he said, taking a seat at the small dining table. His salt and pepper mustache twitched as he appeared troubled, deep in thought. "And do call me Richard."

"No thank you, Monsieur."

My lips quirked. I loved Madame.

Firmin blinked at her, then cleared his throat. "Right. Well, I-"

"Sugar? Cream?"

"Both."

Meg retreated her head into the room, and I did the same. She glanced at the doorway and whispered, "Should we go out there?"

"Now," said Firmin, as we heard Madame put the tea kettle on, "about this Isabelle girl."

Meg didn't wait for my reply. She sprinted out of the room and into the kitchen. I followed closely behind.

"Monsieur?" she said, eyes rounded. "You know something about Isabelle?"

"Oh!" Firmin, at our presence, stood. He bowed his head. "Mademoiselles."

I bowed my head as well. Meg merely stared at him, begging for information with wide brown eyes.

Firmin looked down. "No. Unfortunately, I do not. That is why I am here."

"Monsieur?" I said.

"He is making visits to all of his staff," explained Madame. "Isn't that right, Monsieur Firmin?"

"Precisely right. I am doing a bit of detective work - helping the actual detective as much as I can. I've visited a few of the backstage technicians and other ballerinas. You will be my last visit of the night." He smiled, no joy in the expression. "I've only been manager a short while and already a disaster is on my hands."

"And Monsieur Andre?" asked Madame. "Is he doing visits as well?"

"Andre has a family and does not have the time."

I looked away, hoping suddenly that the staff would give Firmin a chance. I did not care what their opinion on Andre was.

"Now, Mademoiselle Giry," he said then to Meg, sitting once more. We made to sit as well. "What, exactly, can you tell me about your friend?"

\- - - - - - - - - -

After a few cups of tea and a bit of interrogation, Firmin was no more satisfied than when he came in. He frowned nearly the entire time. Despite his obvious disappointment and confusion as to Isabelle's whereabouts, he gave us a reassuring smile.

"We will find her," he said. He stood and put on his hat. "Remember that we have a true detective on the case - that I am no sleuth. I thought I would help but, alas-"

"We appreciate the care you're showing, Monsieur," murmured Meg. Her eyes seemed close to tears. "It does mean the world, I assure you."

Firmin looked away, then gave a dip of his head. "Ladies. Good evening."

"Good evening," Meg and I said in unison. Madame merely returned the small bow.

Meg said, then, that she wanted to go to sleep. I decided that I would as well. We changed into our nightgowns and put out the lamp, climbing into our beds.

I wasn't sure how long it was before Meg fell unconscious, but I could hear her soft snores in the dark. I, on the other hand, was lying wide awake.

Where.

Where on Earth could this girl be?

Did she run into an accident? Was she dead? Injured somewhere? Lost?

Or was she taken by someone?

But if that was the case, who would take her?

I went through the possibilities. It had to be someone unexpected. Someone who no one would think to consider. I doubted it was a member of the Opera, as they would be too likely of a suspect.

I imagined someone in the shadows. Someone secretive. Someone...

Ghostly.

I sat up. I stared into the dark, feeling my heartrate begin to pick up. I pulled my knees to my chest, a puzzle putting itself together in my mind.

A ghost.

Could it be Erik?

This strange man I'd been sending letters back and forth to...could he be a kidnapper? A molester? A killer, even?

It was possible.

More than that, it was likely.

What kind of person would pose himself as a phantom, if not to commit heinous deeds? What else could he gain from that identity? It was the perfect cover - make everyone believe you are the stuff of superstitions, and then wreak criminal havoc. All the while, half blamed the ghost and half blamed someone else entirely.

How had I not considered this before?

I could go to the detective - show him the letters. Tell him what I knew. But if Erik was as all-seeing as he seemed to be, then that would likely be a step backwards. He would disappear like the spirit he paraded as, and no one would ever hear from him again. No one would ever find Isabelle either.

And, what was worse, if he was a member of the Opera, he'd continue being a threat to countless ballet girls.

I closed my eyes.

I had to be careful. Clever. Crafty. I had to pretend I suspected him of nothing. And I would not tell Meg. I wouldn't tell Madame. They'd either insist the phantom was really a ghost - and so incapable of physical kidnap - or they'd think it too dangerous and force me to stop.

I had to get him to trust me.

I looked at Meg, my eyes adjusting to the dark. Sweet, good, hard-working Meg - she deserved the world. What I was planning to do was idiotic - dangerous. The kind of thing I would roll my eyes at if I read it in a novel, a newspaper, saw it in a play. But I would do it for her. I would do anything for her.

If I was going to catch a killer, then I had to get close to the killer.

And strike before he could strike at me.


	9. Erik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who read Something Immortal, here is the return of a character you might recognize from that story and from Kay's work itself.

A ballet girl was missing.

Normally, truly, this wouldn't concern me much. I had more important matters to worry about than women running off with secret lovers, never to be seen again.

But now, there was Christine.

The moment I heard the eavesdropped whispers of backstage technicians, that a ballerina had disappeared, the first thing I'd done was ensure Christine's presence. And when I found her there on the stage, listening to Madame Giry's instruction, I breathed easy.

The letters continued as normal. After I'd dropped my name to her, she'd become insistent on finding out anything she could about me. Where did I live? How did I hide? Where, exactly, did I sit in Box Five if no one had ever seen me in the seat before?

So many questions! Such a curious mouse, investigating the housecat. It was, for lack of a better word, amusing. And a bit surprising - for all she knew, I could be a right danger to her!

Of course, I never revealed anything. Simply my name was quite enough. So far, she hadn't seemed to spill that information, as no talk of "Erik" was abound. She was keeping it to herself, even as she had potential gossip to share. Titillating gossip, too - personal letters with the Phantom of the Opera? Or, if not, then the man posing as the ghost? But no. Nothing. Not a solitary word.

Interesting.

\- - - - - - - - - -

I was, I admit, a bit of an engineer. Nothing wild. Nothing extraordinary. But I dabbled.

One of my simpler projects had been my doorbell.

Oh, no - I suppose I couldn't call it that. It wasn't actually at the door to my underground house. No, it was a length of rope that ran along the ceiling of the lake's large underground cave, starting at the bottom of the stairs and ending at a bell attached to my house. It was only ever rung once a week, and for a very specific reason.

Just as it was rung now.

I stood from the piano bench, put down the pen, and put on my coat and hat. The lake was chilly, always chilly, and it wasn't as though I produced very much body heat. I picked up a lantern, locked the door to the house (a formality), and attached the lantern to the gondola before embarking on my little journey to the other side of the water.

I saw him.

Jules Bernard, my personal assistant. Paid quite well to do my shopping. Paid well, too, to keep the details of his work and employer a tight secret.

Red haired and with the look of a man who couldn't hold his own in even the mildest skirmishes, he bowed his head low to me upon my docking the boat.

"Sir," he said. "I have purchased all that you requested."

"Indeed," I said, coming closer. There, in his hands, was a small basket of groceries. In the other, a carefully folded tailor-made suit. All of my clothes had to be custom tailored - I was far too tall and thin to fit in anything less.

I took the items from him, paid him handsomely, and watched him turn and go back up to Paris, to his family. It was in times like these, watching this man return to the surface, that I was reminded: it mattered little how much I demanded from the managers, it mattered little how much money I acquired, how much control or knowledge or talent I had.

Jules, for the very fact of his wife and children and utter normalcy, would always be richer than me.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Dearest Erik,

I know that I irk you with my constant questions of who you are, or who you could be. Where you live.

But I must divulge something to you, and you must keep it a secret.

I am lonely.

I miss my father terribly, and I find that I cannot connect with any of the other girls. I have Meg, and I have Madame, but outside of them - I have no one. If they were to disappear, if I were to lose them, then no one would notice I was gone. No one would care.

Please understand that I mean no ill intent in trying to learn of your true nature.

I think what I want is a friend. Someone who understands me.

I feel, even from the short amount I have spoken to you, that perhaps you do understand me.

Do you?

Warm regards,

Christine D.

P.S. I hope that Isabelle girl is all right. Have you heard? She is missing.

\- - - - - - - - - -

I read it a dozen times or more.

I'd folded all of her other letters and placed them back into their envelopes. But this one-

I kept it open on my desk. I read those lines time and time again.

'I am lonely.'

'…perhaps you do understand me.

Do you?'

I didn't write back right away. I didn't have the words. I'd never, in all my life, had anyone implore me for company. For friendship. Companionship. Understanding.

I'd tried, in my early life, to earn those things from others - but it was rarely to any avail.

So to have her ask me-

I was beside myself with shock.

Instead, I merely rose to the surface, to the Opera. I watched the rehearsal. I looked at her face, looking for the hidden hurt and pain.

I was shocked again when I found it. Found the barely hidden bags under her eyes, the veiled tiredness in her features, the distance in her eyes. All masked behind performative smiles.

And as I gazed at her from my hiding places, I felt a stirring of something.

Something inconvenient.


	10. Christine

I was triumphant.

I looked at the letter he'd left in response to mine. It had taken everything in me not to cringe while writing out my loneliness and sorrow. Not only because it made me sound desperate to a man who may or may not be a kidnapper.

But because the words weren't entirely a lie.

I'd opened the envelope, anxious to see if he'd taken the bait or if my words had no effect.

\-----

Dear Christine,

I do understand. Loneliness is a near constant in my life.

If a friend is what you need, then I can fill that role. I will continue to write to you promptly and without fail.

Sincerely yours,

Erik

\-----

I wasn't sure whether to feel guilty...or disgusted. If he was innocent, innocent of anything nefarious, then this was cruel. On some level, it was incredibly mean to trick him this way. But if he was responsible for Isabelle's disappearance, then his words were eye-roll worthy at best and evil at worst. So, I suppose, until I found out, I shouldn't feel too badly.

From the other side of my bedroom, Meg stirred in her bed. I took the letter out from where I was hiding it in the pages of a book and placed it back into its envelope, stuffing it with the others in the bottom drawer of my dresser, under my clothes. It was late, nearing midnight, and I was not tired. I was also thirsty.

Still in my nightgown, I left the bedroom for the kitchen, where I was surprised to find Madame awake, sipping coffee and reading a novel at the dining table. She saw me and smiled.

"Unable to sleep?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Just wanting some tea."

"This late?"

I smiled back. "All right, yes. I am unable to sleep."

She nodded knowingly. "That disappearance has Meg shaken as well."

"It's disturbing to say the least." I wet my lips. "Do you have any ideas of who it might be?"

"Not a clue. I wish I did. It could be someone right in front of us."

Or someone in the rafters, I wanted to add, but didn't. I sighed and crossed to the stove, where the tea kettle was waiting. I filled it with water and put it on the heat. I drummed my fingers on the counter, a question itching in my mind and throat.

"Madame?" I asked, and turned to her.

She'd brought her attention back to her book, and didn't move her eyes from the page. "Christine?"

"Do you actually believe in the Opera Ghost?"

At that, she did look up. She paused. "Yes."

I opened my mouth, inhaling air to speak.

"But," she continued, "I don't believe he is actually a ghost."

My breath was caught in my chest. I stared at her, waiting for her to continue.

"I believe he is an angel. A fallen angel, perhaps. One that still seeks to do good amongst the chaos he causes."

I deflated with an outbreath. I blinked at her and felt a stitch form in between my eyebrows. "Madame?"

"Well, he cannot be a ghost. I don't believe in such foolishness. But angels exist, don't they, Christine?"

I stared at her. She said it so Madame-like - no-nonsense and straightforward. Without question. "Yes."

"And fallen angels exist, at least in theory?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"Then who's to say this Phantom is not actually a fallen angel, posing as a ghost?"

"Why an angel?" I said softly. "What if he is just a man?"

"No mortal man can do the things he does. No man can make his voice appear right next to your ear when he isn't there at all."

I raised my brows. "You've heard him do that?"

"Many times." She considered me for a moment, then closed her book. She adjusted her glasses. "I am going to tell you something I have only ever told Meg."

I sat at the table with her, ready to listen.

"When Monsieur Giry died a year after the theatre's opening, I was beside myself with grief. My husband been not just a spouse, but a friend - my dearest friend. So his loss made me...well. I lost my mind, Christine, I really did. And not even my daughter made life seem worth living. The darkness simply took over one day; after rehearsal, I went to the roof, fully prepared to jump."

I sucked in a breath. "Madame-"

She held up a hand, not to be pitied. "But a voice - his voice - stopped me. He told me to step away. He told me that the theatre would suffer without me, that my daughter would too. And he said it as though he was directly to my right, though when I turned to look, he wasn't there. No one was there. Anywhere. I was the only one on the roof."

I stared at her, taking in her words.

"That was the beginning of my relaying his messages to the staff. Every so often, he will still speak in my ear. We will talk. Not often, but it happens." She smiled. "Your tea is about to whistle."

Indeed, three seconds later, the screeching of the kettle began. I quickly removed it from the heat, then looked back at her.

"Thank you," I said, "for telling me."

"I need no thanks. I do not see myself as weak, so telling you was not an act of courage."

I nodded, and turned back to the kettle.

And as I made the tea, her words - the ones regarding her speaking verbally to the Phantom, how he whispered into her ear, how they held entire conversations without him ever actually physically revealing himself to her - churned in my mind. They had to have an explanation. There had to be some trick.

Whatever the case, her words also gave me an idea.

I poured the tea. I brought the cup back to the bedroom I shared with my surrogate sister, and I pulled out a sheet of paper and pen. I set a book on my lap and, in the candlelight, began to write my humble request.


	11. Erik

Tantalus.

A figure from Greek mythology. Trapped in eternal punishment within the torturous confines of Tartarus. Forever standing beneath a fruit tree, feet in a clean, freshwater lake. But the fruit evaded his grasp, and the water receded whenever he bent to take a drink.

Normalcy was my fruit.

Companionship was my water.

I'd long since resigned myself to this life. But now, with these budding feelings for Christine, I felt the sheer presence, the utter ache, of thirst for human contact, hunger for a different life. An ordinary life. A life where I could pursue Christine openly, like so many of the men who called after the ballet girls after performances.

But I could never.

The shame of what she'd say about my mask - never mind my face - was enough to make me shudder.

No.

I'd forever be alone in this house. In this mansion on the lake.

For it was a mansion. Two stories and wide, it was a Gothic beauty of my own design. Grey walls of stone. A wide foyer with two curved staircases that connected at the top, above which hung a black wrought iron chandelier - electric, of course. Downstairs, a parlor, a dining room, a kitchen, and study. Upstairs, half the size of the bottom floor, was a bedroom, a bathing room, and the chamber.

The chamber. Although the bedroom held my clothes, my bed, I slept in the chamber.

At first, I hadn't known what to call this room - a windowless space with only a rug, a lamp, and a coffin. But as I sat reading one night, as I read Poe, as I read his poem "The Raven", the word 'chamber' seemed quite apt.

Poe wrote about horrors happening in his own chamber - horrors of the mind, but nonetheless. I myself was a horror. A horror to behold - I always had been. My mother made that clear. And when I left her, the world made that clear.

So I would sleep in a coffin, where my skeletal figure surely belonged.

And I would do so, so that if the day ever came that I decided that life no longer interested me, I would already be in a coffin when Jules came to retrieve my body. All he'd need to do is add weight to the thing and let it sink to the bottom of the lake. The man worked hard enough - I could at least make that easy for him.

But this - this was the kind of detail that would never be acceptable to a woman. Even if I somehow mustered the courage to invite Christine down here - and on the impossible chance that she accepted the invitation - the mere sight of the coffin would cause her to ask questions.

At absolute best.

These thoughts followed me on my way to the surface. I made the usual route to my box, reached under the seat, and retrieved her latest letter.

\-----

Dearest Erik,

I spoke to Madame today. She mentioned that she believes you to be an angel. She mentioned that you and her sometimes speak - with your voices.

I will not ask to meet you in person if this is something that you do not want. I will respect your privacy in that regard. But do you believe it may be at all possible to hear your voice? Is there any way that we might communicate this way?

This might, I believe, relieve some of my loneliness.

Please say yes.

Your friend,

Christine D.

\-----

I had to remember to breathe.

She wanted to meet me. She wanted to hear my voice.

Images - involuntary ones - flashed through my mind. I pictured her and myself walking through the Bois, one of her hands on the crook of my arm and another holding an umbrella to block the sun, as I pointed out a piece of art being painted by some street artist. I pictured us picnicking in the grass, light shining on her face as she smiled up at a bird singing in the trees - and I smiled at the beauty of her. I pictured us returning home to-

And that was where the images fell apart, crumbling to a heap like a wall of sand and loose stones.

We wouldn't return to a lovely apartment in Paris, blue and yellow flowers potted beneath the windows.

No, we'd return to the Phantom's lair, on a dark lake a mile beneath the surface, where no natural light would ever reach. She'd come home with a man whose face was terrifying enough to be put on display for horror entertainment.

I felt disgusted with myself for these fantasies. Of course they would never come to fruition - and even if they did, somehow, come true, then I would never be able to be a normal man. I had no idea how to love and be loved. I had no idea what loving touch was like, how to participate in that. The most affection I'd ever received was a pat on the shoulder from Giovanni, the man who gave me the gift of architectural knowledge. The most loving words were his pride in me, in my accomplishments.

No, even if my face miraculously changed overnight, I could never be a normal man to a woman. I didn't have the skills, and I feared it was far too late to learn.

I could never show her my visage. My form.

But my voice.

My voice was my one and only beauty. I could show her this, and stop my contact there. If she found my voice to be a worthy companion, then that was good enough for me.

A week, I decided. I'd tell her to meet me in the empty dressing room in a week's time, after the opening performance of Hannibal. I'd tell her to go to that dressing room after everyone else had left.

It would give her enough time to change her mind about the meeting, if doubts sprang. It would give me time to prepare.

I forced my hands to steady as I wrote my reply.


	12. Meg

"Again!"

I was breathless, but as per my mother's demand, I had to ready my exhausted body to start from the top of the number. Dress rehearsal was this afternoon, but she had Christine and me early at the theatre to perfect our forms. To the untrained eye, our dancing could have seemed flawless. To a dancer and a dance instructor, it needed sharpening - a straighter leg here or a wider flourish of the arms there. And I was almost at the top of perfection's peak.

Almost.

I looked at Christine as we too our placed next to one another. She offered me an encouraging smile, and I found myself smiling back. Mother clapped her hands twice, and we began.

Perfectly, Meg. Don't make a mess of this. You know what to do. So do it.

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two...

Every minute or so, I would find that I was losing myself in the motion. But I quickly snapped myself out of it. When I lost myself in music was when I made mistakes. When I stayed focused, precise, I was the dancer I expected myself to be. Staying alert meant staying worthy of my title.

But it also meant that dancing no longer brought me the joy it once had - before my mother made a career out of it for me. I'd once loved it, back when she was allowing me to play, to be comfortable in my own body's abilities, before stepping in and whetting it into something useful.

I snapped back into attention, realizing I'd started to wander.

We finished the routine, and the moment it ended, the moment I realized it done it with absolute perfection, I beamed. I glanced at Christine. She wasn't looking at me, but rather straight ahead, chin high, as she was supposed to. I did the same.

The corners of my mother's lips tugged upwards - the closest we'd ever get to approval. She nodded. "Excellent work, girls. Excellent." She gave me a pointed look - she was talking, really, to me.

At that, Christine did turn in my direction. Her eyes smiled along with her mouth - a rare thing. But where my mother lacked in showing pride, Christine made up for it tenfold. Always. A giggle escaped me, which I quickly stifled.

I had to repeat it tonight. Tomorrow night - especially tomorrow night - if I wanted to celebrate.

My mother brought her hands together. "Now. Go change. We will go to lunch, rest for a bit, then come back here. And tomorrow-" She smiled.

Christine finished her words. "Tomorrow we share our gifts with Paris."

Mother nodded once, eyes glinting. Those were the words she said to us, to all of the ballet girls, at every dress rehearsal. We'd hear those words again tonight.

\- - - - - - - - - -

"There is a bistro a few streets from here - perhaps Maman will take us there."

Christine nodded, pulling her street shoes onto her feet as she sat on the backless cushioned chair. Her hair was still up, as mine was; it would be until the end of the rehearsal tonight.

"I'm glad," she said, fastening her shoe. "I'm starving."

"Me too." I was finished dressing. "I want to eat an entire steak. A whole load of bread. Maybe a potato."

She grinned. She was now working on her other shoe as she looked at me. "Your mother would kill you for filling up like that. And trying to dance on such a full stomach? - you'd regret it."

I nodded, trying not to let the truth of it curl in my core - she cared what we ate at all times, not just before performances. It was bothersome - often made me angry. It was a small thing, and I knew she was right to make sure we were slim and strong. But the lack of agency-

The door to the dressing room creaked open.

Neither of us looked up right away, expecting to see my mother. But when Christine's eyes went up to the visitor, when she let out a gasp of surprise, I whirled to see who it was.

Joseph Buquet. Red-faced and round, with a black goatee and shoulder-length hair matching it in color, he looked every bit the drunkard he was. Hard-working, a skilled chief stagehand, but a drunkard nonetheless.

I blinked as he smiled at us. That leering smile that made my stomach knot.

"A shame," he drawled, his voice like a wet gravel road.

Christine stood. "Pardon?" She glanced at me, then brought her eyes back to Buquet. She liked the man as little as I.

"Yes," he said. "A shame. You're done dressing. I missed it."

Christine scoffed, disgust lining her features. "There is no show here, pig."

He grinned. "A pig?" He leaned against the door jamb, crossing his large arms. His eyes glittered. "Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment." Christine's voice was cool - cool as Buquet's black eyes.

"Regardless." He made the R trill, then stood straight and gave a little bow. "I'll take it as such. Pigs are intelligent, you know."

"A worm, then. Brainless and blind."

"Oh," he responded, bringing his eyes down and up both of our forms. "I can see perfectly fine."

Christine made another noise of disgust, then went directly in front of him. She crossed her arms. "Are you going to trap us in here then, Buquet, or can we now leave? Madame Giry is expecting us - and I don't believe she likes you enough to forgive you."

"Forgive me?"

"For making her wait for us. Move."

I tried to hide my smile. Christine was constantly fearless. I wished I could emulate that.

Buquet stared at her for a few seconds more, mouth twisted and bushy brows raised in amusement, before stepping back and holding his hands up then bringing them together in faux supplication.

We walked past him, neither of us looking back, though we could feel his eyes on us. It was all I could do to keep from shuddering. So...unsettling, he was. And he was like this with all of the ballet girls. All of them-

A thought sent an alarm bell ringing in my head. I gave a small gasp - and when we were out of earshot, out of sight, I stopped Christine, putting a hand on her arm.

She scanned my wide eyes, and brought her own hand on mine. "What, Meg?"

"Isabelle," I whispered. I glanced back in the direction of where we'd come. "Do you think...?"

Her mouth parted slightly as her mind churned at my words. She blinked. Once. Twice. "I don't know." She bit her lip, seeming deep in thought, then pulled me along to meet my mother.

I hoped my stomach would settle by the time it was met with food.


	13. Raoul

Albert took the lead as we were ushered to our seat, Julien tailing behind me. Twice, Albert looked back with a wicked grin as we stepped through the aisle. When I turned, his brother was fixing me with the exact same look.

I rolled my eyes. The two of them - spending so much money on a gag gift. It didn't stop me from dressing in my finest - if I was to experience an opera, I might as well put all my chips in. I was willing to bet, after all, that this would be an absolute bore no matter how I prepared for it.

We sat in the middle of the rows of seats. I'd thought they might get us a box seat - but there were none available, according to the ticket seller.

I eyed a box close to the stage. Empty. Strange. Perhaps its patrons were not here yet.

I shrugged. No matter. A box was expensive. And though I was sure the twins could have afforded it, I doubted they wanted to spend that much on something I wouldn't even enjoy. Of the three of us, Albert was the only one to actually enjoy the fine arts. He was locking mouths with the sister of a thespian, after all.

"Is her brother in this show, then?" I asked softly, thumbing through the playbill absentmindedly.

He nodded. "He's a singer - not the lead. A minor character."

I nodded. "He's probably a rubbish singer."

He hit me with his own playbill harshly, and Julien howled. I grinned, rubbing my suddenly sore arm.

I looked, then, at my pocket watch. Twenty minutes to eight. Twenty minutes to the torture. At least I had those few precious moments of quiet, broken only by the soft murmur of hundreds of anticipatory voices, spread throughout the theatre.

And, really, it was a magnificent theatre. A large chandelier hanging from the painted ceiling. The entire place seemed to be gilded, and the enormous stage was hidden currently by a thick red curtain. The lobby of the Opera House was even more extravagant - more opulent than the de Chagny estate. Statues and elegant carvings and polished floors that seemed to reflect the stonework walls. It was a work of art.

That didn't make what we were about to witness any more endurable.

Ten more minutes.

I flipped through my playbill. La Carlotta Giudicelli was the prima donna. Piangi Giudicelli, I presumed her husband, was her male counterpart. I asked Albert to point out his lover's brother so that I knew when to boo, and he merely gave a small scowl and shook his head. I smiled as his twin sniggered.

I was about to move to the ballet when the orchestra began. The lights dimmed. The crowd stilled, quieted.

And I frowned.

Three hours.

I could make it.

\- - - - - - - - - -

I was bored.

Bored out of my mind.

For exactly fifteen minutes.

Then she appeared. The most beautiful girl I'd ever seen - tied up blonde hair, delicate, and wide-eyed.

I'd gone to my playbill swiftly to see who she was - but I didn't know her role, so it was no use. There were a dozen or more girls in the ballet list. I turned to Albert to ask if he knew who she was.

He'd given me an infuriating, knowing smile, winked at me, and told me her name.

Meg. Meg Giry.

The opera was tedious. The music was shrill. And the entire experience had me hoping that no one knew my title - merely so that I wouldn't have to give a formal review.

But Meg made it semi-bearable.

When she was on the stage, I was enraptured. I could not look away. When she was gone from view, I merely thought about what I'd seen.

Albert was amused - so was Julien. I ignored them both.

For all three hours.

And when it was finished - when I was content to have seen an angel for a moment but go back to my life on Earth - Albert informed me that we were going to go and visit his lover's brother.

Not wanting to leave my friends behind, I agreed, hoping we'd be brief.

Backstage, it was bustling. Singers and dancers and honored guests who'd come to give their loved ones flowers created a sea of people. I bristled, uncomfortable.

Please let this be quick.

When Albert found who he was looking for, both men gave exclamations of pleasure and embraced. Then, before the man could pull away, Albert leaned in close to his ear. The man smiled, nodded, and ushered us further into the throng, and further still, until we reached an opening near one of the wings of the stage. Two girls stood there, one a bit taller than the other.

The taller girl, who'd taken down her hair, was strikingly beautiful, with bright blue eyes and curled brown hair. And next to her, even prettier...was Meg.

I stood before her, heart hammering. I felt I would faint when she turned to look at me. She looked at my face, gave me a once over, and gave a very small smile.

My hands went slick, and my neck was hot. I turned, looking for the twins for any bit of assistance, but they were gone.

Tricked me. They'd tricked me into coming to meet her, into-

"Hello." A small, feminine voice. I whirled back around. Meg was still looking at me. She opened her mouth. "Did you enjoy the show, Monsieur?"

I blinked. I forgot the French language entirely.

The girl with brown hair suddenly found somewhere important to be, though I could feel that she hadn't travelled far. I could feel her sky-colored eyes just as strongly as I could feel Meg's chocolate ones.

"H-hello," I managed.

A beat, during which I realized I hadn't actually answered her question. I inwardly cursed myself. Normally, I could manage a conversation much better than this - but I'd never been interested in any of those girls before. But this girl - she was -

She smiled, genuinely. Pleased, somehow. Somehow.

"What is your name?" she asked. "Mine is Meg."

I swallowed. "I did enjoy...the show."

Her smile grew and she let out a laugh. Like the sound of a bell. It was lovely. "You seem to be one step behind on our conversation, Monsieur."

I didn't know what to do with my face. "Sorry."

"It's all right. Your name?"

"Raoul." I pondered whether to give her my last name, but didn't. It seemed to be going well, and I didn't want to change that with the introduction of titles. I wanted to let her think we were on the same social standing, at least for the moment.

She nodded, and gave a little curtsy. "Good to meet you."

"Likewise." My throat was dry. "Your...your dancing...was..." I wiped my hands on my trousers. "Very good."

She had to have noticed my nerves. I was sure she did. But she was ignoring it as she bowed her head. "Thank you. It means a great deal."

I think she expected me to turn and go, then. That I'd merely come by to compliment her, congratulate her on a job well done. The small quirk of her eyebrows told me as much - that my current staring was confusing her.

She cleared her throat. "Is there anything else, Monsieur?"

I should have said no - that I'd said what I needed to say. I should have given a little bow, turned, and walked away.

But I didn't.

No, instead my heart betrayed me. It reached up, up, up to my throat and spoke the words for me: "Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow?"

Her eyes widened, and I immediately wanted to shrink away. I wanted to crawl under the nearest table and hide, shrivel to nothing. I wanted to reverse time so that I could rip up that blasted ticket and never have come here.

She was going to say no. She didn't know me. I was a stammering, clammy stranger to her. Of course she would say no.

But then she stole a glance to my right - to where that other girl had gone. Then when her eyes met mine, her lips grew once more into a smile. Her eyes softened.

"Yes. I would love to."


	14. Christine

There was an opening-night party.

Meg, exhausted, said that she longed for bed far too much to attend - even despite the young man who'd just asked her to dinner tomorrow night.

And he was, really, a handsome gentleman, clearly of high blood - though I wondered exactly how high. He looked to be a couple of years younger than me, perhaps the same amount older than her. He was a nervous wreck, soft-spoken, mild-mannered - which immediately endeared me to him. Raoul. Not quite what I wanted for myself, but I was happy to say that Meg seemed entirely pleased by him; enough so that when he asked her to dinner, she took one look at my encouraging expression and said yes.

I was sure that part of the reason Meg chose not to go to the party was because she wanted to be rested enough to go to that dinner with him. Madame, never the socialite, would be returning home as well. I'd shown false disappointment, informed both women that I would be going to the party, and claimed I'd miss them both there.

It was, of course, a lie.

I'd be staying right here, in the Opera House. Even after the doors to the theatre were locked, anyone could still leave without disrupting the lock. Although unable to be opened from the outside without a key, anyone could open the door and exit - they would merely be unable to get back in.

I would be, I knew, the last one here.

The Girys asked me if I wanted them to escort me to the party - an event hosted by La Carlotta at her luxurious house in Paris. I said no; I would travel with the other ballet girls. Content with this, they nodded, said their goodbyes, and left.

I went to the spare dressing room the moment I could.

My heart beat hard in my chest. I had no idea what I would experience - but I had to know. And whatever I would find, I was sure I would prevail. I would make it. I would be able to fight my way out. I was strong enough. Clever enough. Ballet required a sharp mind and able body.

I could handle it.

In fact, if it came to it, I would do my best to turn the tables and become the threat instead.

If it came to it.

I closed the door behind me. I didn't think anyone had seen me enter. The backstage was rapidly thinning out as actors and dancers made their way out to continue, or end, the night.

It was eleven twenty-five, the last time I'd checked a clock.

Eleven thirty, he'd said. He'd appear at eleven thirty.

There was no clock in this room, and I didn't carry a watch. So I counted the seconds, using my pounding pulse as some kind of erratic timer.

When I was sure that five minutes had passed - had to have passed - I cleared my throat, feeling entirely a fool: "Hello?"

Nothing. Nothing but the many boxes of unused jewelry, costume pieces, and small props. Nothing but the vast floor to ceiling mirror before me, reflecting my own flushed-faced visage back at me. I looked down from my own eyes.

I tried a little louder, wondering if this really was some enormous prank - if Buquet or any number of other theatre staff would open the door with a laugh. "Hello?"

"I am here."

I jumped, inhaling sharply, bringing my eyes back up to my reflection. A voice, unmistakably male, undeniably beautiful, rich, and clear, had spoken to me. But not from a corner, or outside the door, or the ceiling, or floor.

It came from the space right next to my ear, as if he were indeed a phantom whispering to me.

"Where?" My own voice shook.

A beat. "Here."

I blinked, stating the obvious: "I can't see you."

"No..." he mused. "You cannot see me; but I can see you."

A shiver ran down my spine. "How are you doing this?"

"Magic."

It was all I could do to not roll my eyes. I didn't believe in such nonsense - I'd thought I'd made that abundantly clear to him. No, there was some trick to this - some explanation. But I remembered what role I was playing. I let my lips quirk up at the corners. "I can see - hear - that."

A silence. My heart didn't slow. Part of me felt terrified that I was playing with fire - the other part was mesmerized by the flame. His voice, wherever it was coming from, really was lovely. And the way he spoke - his tone laced with power and confidence - made me want to find the source of the sound; even as I suspected the very worst of him.

"You danced beautifully tonight," he said.

I raised my brows. "Thank you."

"No need for thanks; I'm not flattering you. I speak the truth."

I wasn't swayed by pretty words. But I certainly pretended to be. I smiled warmly. "Thank you, all the same."

"Of course."

Enough pleasantries. At least, enough pleasantries that weren't under my control.

I had to get to business. To charm him, not allow him to charm me.

"It really is good to hear your voice," I said, "and it's a wonderful voice to hear. So beautiful."

He let out a low chuckle. "It's my turn, I suppose, to thank you." A pause. "I can sing, if you'd like to hear - or, if you'd prefer, I can play an instrument. I don't have one with me now, but perhaps next time-"

His voice faltered. Next time. He'd stopped short on that phrase, as though he felt he were getting ahead of himself, ahead of the situation. I gave my own reflection an assuring smile and said, "Yes. Next time. What can you play?"

"I'm rather skilled in violin."

My smile faded. God, no. If I never heard a violin again, it would be too soon. After my father- "No. Thank you, but no." I shifted. "I would like to hear you sing. A private serenade, then?" I made myself give a girlish, shy giggle. Bleh.

He took the bait, yet again. His voice was swimming with pleasure as he said, "It would be an honor."

And he sang.


	15. Erik

She was speaking.

To me.

And, God, the way she'd danced tonight. So beautiful. She was all I could focus on. All that mattered during that opera.

I didn't have the energy to deny that truth that had set itself in stone the day she'd asked to hear my voice - the truth that sprouted like a fast-growing flower in my heart, in my mind.

I was falling in love with Christine Daae.

I, who'd promised myself never to get close enough to a woman for fear of having my soul torn asunder, torn to ribbons, was enamored with someone who'd never seen me in physical form.

She looked as uncertain as I felt, though I could see an undercurrent of something else in those blue eyes. Something set - something determined. Unafraid. I felt a flutter in my chest.

I wondered if it was actually her I was falling for, or if it was merely the idea of someone seeking companionship from me. I decided that it didn't matter either way. A friend, I might be to her, but never a suitor. Never a lover.

She smiled at the mirror, behind which I stood. A two-way piece of glass. I could see her - she only saw her reflection. The way she looked into the mirror made me question if she guessed my location - but no. She probably merely wanted a pair of eyes to look into while she spoke, and believed her own would have to do.

Oh, Christine - if I could only be an ordinary man...if I only had the courage to reveal myself to you...if I only knew that you'd not regard me with disgust, I...

"It really is good," she said, "to hear your voice; and it's a wonderful voice to hear. So beautiful."

Joy bloomed in my core. It grew like grapevines to my throat, made me drunk with infatuation. It let itself out in the form of a chuckle. "It's my turn, I suppose, to thank you." If she liked my voice so, found pleasure in my one and only bodily beauty, then I could offer her that - if nothing else. "I can sing, if you'd like to hear - or, if you'd prefer, I can play an instrument." My mind, my musical talent - perhaps that might impress her too. "I don't have one with me now, but perhaps next time-"

Shame flooded me. Next time. Next time, as if I had any claim to-

"Yes," she said, regarding her reflection kindly. Patiently. "Next time. What can you play?"

I wanted to fall at her feet in gratitude. "I'm rather skilled in violin."

Her smile disappeared, to my dismay. "No. Thank you, but no." Before I could ponder her reaction, she continued, bringing herself to look pleased once more. "I would like to hear you sing. A private serenade, then?"

She giggled, and I felt that warmth again.

"It would be an honor," I told her, and meant it.

I sang for her, a lighthearted, quick song. As I did, I watched her face. Her reaction. For those minutes when I let loose my voice, I knew what it was to be handsome - admired. Her lips parted, eyes rounded, and her shoulders became slack. Her guard was down, and she was just as enraptured with me as I was with her.

For those minutes.

Lord above, if I could only sing and never stop - sing, and see that look on her face, nonstop, never ending, I would.

When it was over, she closed her mouth, blinked a few times, and tightened herself once more. "Oh..." was all she said. She swallowed, and after a few seconds, added, "That was...rather..."

"Thank you."

"You..." she said, narrowing her eyes. "You don't sound like anyone I know in the theatre. None of the singers."

"That's because I'm not."

She considered this, but said nothing. Merely chewed lightly at her bottom lip. An endearing gesture, one that made the corners of my own lips quirk, quite against my will. Thoughts appeared to be churning behind her eyes. Inclining her head, she asked, "Are you sure I can't see you?"

My heart sank low. "I am sure." My voice was more clipped than I intended it to be.

Christine stepped forward, my tone seeming to have no impact. She looked deep into her own eyes. "Not even for a moment?"

I didn't respond. Of course this would happen. Of course; and I did not blame her. I'd want to know too.

When half a minute passed, and I gave no reply, something close to panic entered her gaze. "I- that was too forward," she said. "I'm sorry."

I still didn't respond. I felt too foolish - too much like a coward.

"I'm sorry," she said again. Her throat bobbed - I could see her battling with something inside her to get the words out. "Please don't go."

That arrow struck. "I'm still here."

She nodded, relief deflating her posture. "I won't ask to see you again."

Anytime soon, I knew she wanted to say, but refrained.

"I wish I could sing like that," she said, bringing her hands together low in front of her. "Perhaps you truly are magic, to be so blessed."

It may have been my desire to keep seeing her that led me to suggest: "I could teach you."

A moment, then her gaze sparked with what looked like pleasure. "Yes. I would love that."

My hands worked at my side. I was growing suddenly excited by the idea. "Let me hear what you can do."

Her brows rose. "Now?"

"Is there another time you would prefer?"

Christine looked down, then exhaled, inhaled, and closed her eyes. She opened her mouth.

Her singing wasn't...good, per se.

But there was a quality to it, like a diamond in need of cleaning and a good polish, that promised something beautiful. Something magnificent.

The song was over in a minute. When she was done, she appeared not to know what to do with her body. Her expression begged for some sort of assessment. Good. Bad. Anything.

I took pity.

"We will meet once a week," I suggested. "Your voice is capable of becoming quite lovely with work." I paused as she reddened, then added, "It's not bad as it is - but we could make it great."

Her mind chewed on my words, then she stuck her chin out. "Five times a week."

To meet, I realized after a beat. I was astonished. She wanted to meet...five...

My instincts had me about to barter. But why would I? If I could meet with her all seven days, I would. I merely assumed she wouldn't want...

"Five times a week, then," I said softly, and she gave a self-satisfied smile. The subtle cockiness of the gesture did something unholy to me. "We will start Monday. Every weekday. Right after rehearsal or a performance. Yes?"

My heart threatened to drum itself out of my ribcage as she beamed and said, "Yes."


	16. Christine

There was every possibility, of course, that Erik had nothing to do with Isabelle's disappearance. I'd known that from the start. And Buquet was certainly a suspicious character, even before the girl had vanished. I'd have to keep an eye on him too.

But innocent or guilty, Erik remained curious, uncanny, strange. I would continue my charade with him. And if it turned out that he had no hand in her fate, then no harm done. I'd simply look elsewhere.

Speaking of.

The managers were starting talk of finding Isabelle's replacement, since it seemed the girl truly wasn't returning anytime soon. Meg was distraught - if her friend truly was dead, as she suspected, then this was the final nail on the coffin. She was trying so hard to hold out hope, but the world was shutting its doors to the possibility of good news. The theatre staff's conversations regarding the ballet girl were rapidly declining, until she seemed to be a thing of the past.

Only the rare, "I wonder what became of Isabelle", to which the reply would come: "Who knows?" "It's sad." "Let's talk of something else, please."

A detective was still investigating, though even he seemed to be rapidly suspecting she simply ran off - "as so many young women do", he'd apparently told Firmin. Firmin, the dear man, was taking it nearly as hard as Meg. The more I got to know him, the more I realized how seriously he took his job, how happy he wanted his actors and dancers and technical crew to be. And this? A missing girl, barely weeks into his position here?

He'd missed a couple of rehearsals, in his stress. And I knew it was stress. I saw the familiar faraway look in his eyes when the topic was brought up. The same faraway look as Meg.

Luckily, he came to the opening night performance. He'd come to tonight's performance, the ever-popular Friday second-night performance - often more popular than opening night itself, if only because the weekend was here. If only because the audience could get a sense for what they'd see from their peers before trying it out for themselves.

I was practicing midday in the theatre with Meg and Madame, just as I'd done yesterday. Madame seemed more pleased than usual - we'd both been frightened of what her response would be at hearing that Meg had a suitor, wondered if she'd see it as a threat to Meg's career. But no. Madame seemed entirely pleased by the idea. Her only stipulation was that he would eat dinner within the Giry home, rather than having him whisk her off without a chaperone.

As I danced next to Meg, sweat glistening on our foreheads, as Madame circled around us, I glanced every minute or so toward Box Five. Even as she barked corrections at us, I only half-heard. I was transfixed on that always-empty seat.

How did he do it? Speak like he was here, play pranks on the stagehands, and still remain so undetected by the eye? How?

My eyes then lingered for a few moments on that box.

Was he watching me now?

Did I feel threatened by that?

No, I realized quickly. I didn't. Because he wasn't a threat - I wouldn't let him be. Not to me.

I thought back to last night. To his voice.

My Lord.

It had been more beautiful than anything I'd ever heard. I'd thought for a moment that perhaps Madame was right - that he really was an angel. But I knew him to be a man. He had to be a man. Anything else was...ridiculous, really.

We continued our dance, as Madame continued her instruction. I would think about this later. I really should be focusing.

So I turned my attention back to Madame. Fully, at least. I'd speak with Erik tonight. Find out more tonight, hopefully.

We rehearsed the number for perhaps ten more minutes, when I spotted someone walking toward the stage. A man. It took me a moment to realize it was a manager. Firmin.

Meg faltered in her steps upon seeing him. When I spotted his face, I did too.

Something...

Something was wrong.

Madame put up a hand to stop our dancing, though she needn't have put in the effort. We had stopped moving, the thought of artistic movement well behind us at the expression Firmin held. He stopped just shy of the stage, thinned his lips, and peered at us through tired, unsmiling eyes.

"Monsieur Firmin," said Madame primly, glancing quickly at her daughter before bringing her sharp eyes back to him. "To what do we owe this pleasure?" As if it were her theatre that he were visiting; as if he were a guest here and not the one in charge.

"Ladies," he greeted, voice rough as pavement. Meg and I shared a short look. "I thought I might find you here." He offered us an efforted pleasant look. "I wish to keep this brief, for all our sakes."

Meg's throat bobbed. She suspected as well as I the reason for his appearance.

"We have found," he said, "Isabelle's killer."

Meg, I think, stopped breathing. Her mother whipped her gaze to her and kept it there, even as Firmin continued talking.

"An anonymous tip brought the detective to the home of one of our stagehands, Daniel St. Juste. The tip prompted the detective to look under his mattress - based on his lifestyle, according to Buquet, I assume perhaps it was a lady of the night who gave the tip. Under his mattress they found her locket...and her underclothes. They were..." He grimaced. "They were bloody."

Meg closed her eyes, hands shaking. Her mother inhaled deeply, slowly.

"Buquet claims that the man had an obsession with the girl. Her body was found in the Seine, recently dumped there, from the state of the body-"

"That's enough." Madame's voice was sharp enough to slice the horrible tension, as Meg let out a little sound of pain. "That's quite enough. You and I can discuss the finer details later, Monsieur Firmin."

I looked away from Meg, heart pounding.

Then I looked up at Box Five.

If this news was to be believed, then it wasn't Erik.

But if it wasn't him, if it was this stagehand, then why was Erik hiding in the dark? What was the purpose behind his secretive, ghostly way of life?

And if not to lure me into his web, why, exactly, did this shadowy man respond so enthusiastically to my request for friendship?


	17. Raoul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I changed it so that Raoul is coming to the Giry home to eat, rather than taking her out unchaperoned

I'd spent two full hours playing with my hairstyle.

Eventually, I decided that I would be nervous out of my wits no matter how I looked, and I let it be.

Alone in my city apartment, generously paid for by my brother so that I could study in Paris, it was all I could do not to watch the clock. The only company I kept was the middle-aged day maid who came in the morning, cooked my breakfast, cleaned, cooked my lunch and dinner, then left - though I'd told her not to worry about dinner tonight. My classes wouldn't start for another month, so I truly had nothing to do, as the twins were on a holiday to Marseille with their parents.

Then eleven at night came around, and I prepared to make the short journey to the Girys' building several streets from mine. Upon meeting her at the theatre, her mother (the dance instructor, no less) had insisted that I eat in their home, after the performance tonight. I disliked staying up late, only stayed up past midnight at parties because the twins or my brother wanted to. I'd have to be used to it, though, if I wanted to court her in any way, even for just a night or two.

Already I hoped it would be for longer than that, but I had to keep my excitement to myself. I didn't want to scare her away.

Really, though, I was frightened enough for the both of us.

My fear grew with every step I took out of my darkened apartment, down the stairs, and out into the street. It grew with every meter closer I was to Meg, to the first girl I'd ever pursued.

Was this insane? I didn't know if I believed in love at first sight, but her smile and movements and grace had been like a tonic for my soul, like a delicate hook grabbing me and pulling me closer. And the way she didn't sneer at my fumbling words or sweat-ridden hands, but instead looked on with a mild sort of adoration, had made me take a chance.

The moon high above Paris tonight was full, and a warm summer night breeze cooled my slick forehead. I was wearing formal wear, though not so formal that it might give away my status, but I'd never look presentable if the sweat didn't leave my damned forehead.

I at last reached the address I'd been given last night. Meg, its seemed, lived on the bottom floor of the three-story building. Her white door held a single number - 230. The door next to hers held 231 and 232; I presumed the top two apartments.

Bracing myself, feeling entirely like my heart could be heard from down the darkened street, I exhaled slowly, shakily. I went on quaking knees to the door and knocked. Twice. Lightly, as I currently had no strength, but it did the trick. Ten seconds later, the door opened.

It wasn't Meg, and it wasn't her mother. It was the brown-haired girl who'd been with her that day. I wondered if it was her sister; they looked different enough, and Meg and her mother looked similar enough, that perhaps this girl took after their father. A handsome man, then. The entire family was handsome.

Behind her, a warm glow of light was pouring out into the street. I could see a dining table - not set for dinner. My stomach turned a bit. Was I too early?

I cleared my throat. "H-hello," I said meekly. I put up a hand. "I-I am here for-"

She nodded. "Meg. Yes." The girl bit her lip. "I will see if she is...disposed to meet." She just about closed the door, but stopped when it was merely cracked. She opened it again. "Raoul, yes?"

"Yes."

"I'm Christine." A little smile. "It's good to meet you. Pardon me for just a moment."

The door closed fully.

Christine's words churned in my mind. See if she was disposed? Hadn't I been invited? Had she changed her mind? I grimaced. Perhaps that explained the unset table.

Oh, God - how embarrassing. How humiliating - to have gotten so dressed. To have fretted all day, for nothing-

The door opened wide, and there was Meg.

The first thing I noticed were her eyes. They looked like she'd been crying.

The second thing I noticed were her clothes. Purple day clothes and slippers. Nothing formal. I really was overdressed. Shit.

She cleared her throat, and closed the door behind her. She gave a wan smile. "Hello, Raoul."

"Hello," I whispered, feeling foolish. "I...I'm sorry I don't have...flowers. I-" I'd forgotten flowers. Shit. Shit.

She waved that away like a buzzing fly. "No. It's all right."

A short silence as she moved her eyes away from mine, brought them to the cobblestone ground behind me. She seemed deep in thought as she pushed a stray strand of yellow hair behind her ear.

I was about to speak, to say anything, when she opened her mouth again: "I will still invite you in, but I..." Her mouth contorted. "I don't know if you heard?" She looked at me again.

My brows stitched. "Heard?"

"About the...missing ballet girl?"

I rummaged through my memory, but found nothing. Though, I didn't much read the newspaper as it was. I shook my head.

"She...Isabelle...she was killed." The last word was choked out. "She was my friend. I feel...I am not quite myself tonight, if you understand."

My heart dropped. I breathed, "I'm so sorry." I closed my eyes. "I can go-"

"No," Meg said quickly. I opened my eyes to find her watching me intently. "No, I think I...I think I'd like the...distraction." She blushed. "Not to use you, Monsieur, I - if you want to leave after this news, you can certainly go, and I won't take offense-"

"I don't feel used." I said the words too quickly. "I...can be a distraction, if you need." I felt myself blush too.

She nodded slowly. "I think I merely want to talk to someone who is not...involved? Who doesn't know anything about it? Does that make sense to you?"

"It does."

A pause, then she smiled. Her eyes roved down my suit and back up. "I'm sorry I'm not dressed for the occasion."

"You look beautiful." The words were out before I could stop them. I winced at myself, but she beamed.

"Thank you." She moved her hand to the doorknob. "Would you like to come in, Monsieur Deleon?"

I felt a pang of guilt at the fake surname I'd given her, but nodded in appreciation. "Yes. Of course. Thank you, Mademoiselle Giry."

"I don't yet have dinner prepared," she admitted, eyes regretful. "Too much has happened, and we...forgot. None of us were hungry. But I can make us tea. I could make soup, perhaps-"

"That would be fine," I said. "I can prepare the tea while you prepare the soup, if you like." Even I, a pampered aristocrat, knew how to make tea. Doing something, the mere thought of helping, dissolved my nerves. The act of doing always took my mind off of my fear.

She smiled. "Yes. Thank you."

At that, we entered and set to work, both of us seeming to feel better for it. Though I still fretted over how she'd perceive me as the hour went on, though I knew my mere presence couldn't help her grief, it was enough for now.


	18. Erik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortie but goodie :)

I overheard the conversation between the manager Firmin and the three ladies on the stage. I'd been watching them rehearse, Madame Giry bringing Meg and Christine - the latter, I gathered, her ward of sorts - for a small, private practice. They'd done this yesterday. Now that I thought about it, they engaged in this practice quite often. I'd merely never taken too much of an interest. I hadn't known Christine then.

As Firmin described the items found under St. Juste's mattress, as he described the finding of the girl's body, my blood ran cold. I'd only murdered once - once when I was very young, and only to survive - but this... I considered tracking down the stagehand and avenging the girl myself.

Would I have cared a month ago? I wasn't sure. But the heartbreak on Meg Giry's face, which caused Christine's crestfallen, pale expression, made me angry. Unreasonably so. This man had, through indirect means, caused pain to a girl who'd reached out to me, offered me friendship, asked for friendship in return. I wanted to hurt him.

But I stayed my hand.

I'd had violence done to me as a child, and though anger and loneliness had weaved in and out of my life like a knitted blanket of pain, I'd never doled that violence back out.

Since birth, I'd been called a monster. I would not give the world the satisfaction of proving them right.

Besides, it appeared the police had found enough evidence to convict him, and I doubted he'd be able to weasel his way out. The proof under his bed, in the notebook he kept...it was absolutely damning.

When the ladies and the manager left the stage, I went back to my home underground. I sat in my armchair, attempting to read a book but failing - for as I read, it occurred to me how thankful I was that this man had been caught. Though it appeared he seemed to only have eyes for the Isabelle girl, had he not been arrested, he may have moved on to a new victim.

He may have moved on to Christine.

I closed the book. I put it way. I tried to play music.

But it was no use.

The hours were too long. I wanted to see her again. I knew I was becoming obsessed - but I didn't care. I was counting the minutes, the seconds.

When the oppressive walls of my underground home were too much, I made my way up to the surface. It was still an hour before anyone would arrive at the theatre, but I'd sit in Box Five until then.

But in my seat, I found a letter. From Christine.

This hadn't been here earlier today, so she either left it before she departed, perhaps keeping paper here to write. Or, she'd arrived early to place it here. I didn't see any sign of life in the theatre now, at least not on the stage, so I assumed it was the former.

I opened it.

\-----

Erik,

In light of recent events, I will not be able to meet for our lesson tonight.

I apologize. Understand that it is a family matter.

I will be in the dressing room on Monday.

Thank you,

Christine D.

\-----

I understood, of course, though my disappointment was immense. I thinned my lips and folded the letter, placing it in my pocket.

Instead, I waited the irritating amount of time for the performance to start. Christine didn't return to the stage before her cue in the opera, so when I at last saw her, it was like witnessing a sunrise after a long night. And I stared into that sun until my eyes pricked.

When it was over, when I returned to my home, when I laid my head down to sleep, I dreamed of her.

Even as it felt good to fall in love so, it still left lingering feelings of disgust. She'd never want me. My feelings would never be requited. Pining after her felt like a dragon falling for a princess in a fairy-tale - laughable and deeply not-right, a story no one wanted to hear. The prince was who the princess married. I was no prince.

But I could be something else. A friend now to Christine.

An angel to Madame Giry.

The following morning, I left a letter in the dressing room for dance instructor. I expressed to her my sorrow over the dead ballerina.

I meant every word.


	19. Christine

The presence of the bloody underclothes and locket were hard to deny. So was the notebook Firmin found in St. Juste's locker, full of poems about and drawings of Isabelle, all matching the man's handwriting. It proved the obsessiveness Buquet has spoken to Firmin and the detective about.

It was still a shock to learn that Isabelle's killer had been sitting right under our noses.

And it still didn't make me less leery of Buquet, even if he seemed not to be the guilty party. I didn't trust him, especially not when he constantly stared and made discomforting comments to the ballet girls.

He was a pig, but not necessarily a murderer.

And Erik.

Regardless of the fact that it was St. Juste that had defiled Isabelle, not Erik, he remained a curious character. He remained a point of intrigue - a mystery to be solved. Even while Isabelle's case was closed, I wanted to know more about the infamous Phantom of the Opera. (Momentarily, I had considered that St. Juste was actually Erik, but then I remembered his voice - absolutely not the same. St. Juste was an older man with a raspy smoker's voice. I had no idea of Erik's age, but his voice seemed gifted from the Heavens for its clarity and beauty).

The day after we discovered the truth about Isabelle, Madame Giry still had us practice midday, but not for long. Meg wanted rest, and Madame allowed it. I claimed I wanted the extra practice, that I wanted to stay to continue dancing. Madame allowed that too, asking me to be careful - though she didn't seem too concerned. No one else was here, and no one would be able to get in without a key - meaning herself or the managers. I was safer here than on the streets of Paris.

The moment they were gone from the theatre, I went to the spare dressing room.

And investigated.

There had to be some explanation. Some answer as to how Erik managed to pull the so-called magic he performed that night, with his voice so clear but body nowhere to be found. I scanned the walls, looking for a crack or hole. I looked through the boxes, wondering if there was some advanced device, borne of a technology I had no idea about, that might project his voice - as silly as it sounded. But it was no sillier than the alternative - that the man really was capable of fantastical feats.

I refused to believe it.

So I kept looking.

And it was as I investigated the boxes that something...odd caught my eye.

One of the boxes had been moved. I knew it had been moved because, before, it'd been sitting right next to the large mirror. I'd marked it, for it had held a red and gold mask on top of overflowing layers of green silk. The box had been moved half a meter to the left.

This wouldn't be so strange if it wasn't for what had been behind the box, now exposed for the eye to see.

A lock in the wall. Small, the same color as the wallpaper. Barely noticeable - probably not noticeable at all, had it not been for the silver key sticking out of it, turned on its side, as if whatever had been locked...

Was now unlocked.

My mind whirled. This. This had to mean something.

I went to my knees by the key in the lock. I stared at it for a few seconds, wondering if I should...

I reached out a hand, slowly, and turned the key so that it was perpendicular, so that I could take it out.

The mirror - the mirror! - made a sound as though something were clicking into place. Slowly. Over the course of about ten seconds.

I stared at the glass as I stood, key in my hand. My mind put the pieces together.

And I felt myself pale as a picture became clear.

The mirror.

Of course.

Quickly, hands shaking, I knelt once more and put the key in, turning it. That sound again, but in reverse. Like the mirror was unlocking - as strange as that statement sounded. I went to my feet and...if this mirror were, perhaps, a door, then...

I pushed on it, and it didn't budge. I went to the side of the glass and attempted to pull - and though it didn't move toward me, the motion forced it to slide to the side. Just an inch, but there was now a crack between the wall and the mirror.

A buzz of excitement filled me. Heart pounding, I continued sliding the mirror open. Open, and open, and open,

Until I was staring into a pitch black hallway.

Oh, this...

This was something out of a mystery novel. A frightening one at that.

But I felt nothing but sheer anticipation. Stupid, stupid anticipation. This was idiotic. Dangerous. And yet-

I rummaged through the boxes, having seen a lantern here somewhere while I'd been searching - the thing, I remembered, having been used in a modern gothic opera. I searched through one box, then another, and when I found it in the third, I felt my heart pound.

Stupid, stupid. But my curiosity, my need to know, wouldn't allow for anything less.

I checked to see if the lantern worked.

When I found it did, I let out a little sound of thrill.

I turned to face the darkness beyond - and I took a readying breath. I made a plan, mentally. I would enter only so far as I was comfortable - and if I came across danger, if I found the place to be a maze of twists and turns, then I would turn back. Run back, if necessary, and lock the mirror behind me.

I stepped into the abyss and walked.

It was quiet and cold. The shadows made by the lantern were eerie against the stone walls and floor. For some reason, I'd expected it to be damp - but it was dry. Lifeless. A place that seemed not to have been visited for hundreds of years, though I knew that not to be possible.

The hallway ran straight for twenty seconds or so, then looked to veer left. A prickle of fear - finally, sensible fear - ran down my spine at what manner of things might be waiting there. I did what I'd done as a child frightened that there was a monster under the bed: I puffed myself up. I set my shoulders back, stuck out my chin, and said "boo" to whatever ghoul lay in hiding.

Though, now, I didn't say the word aloud. I became the word with my quick rounding of the corner, swinging up my lantern as I did so, eyes wide and teeth set to a grimace.

There was no ghoul.

But there was a man. His appearance shocked me, and my quick movement and loud gasp caused him to yelp in surprise, dropping his own lantern, the cast iron remaining intact while the glass shattered and the light went out. As he put a hand to his chest at my presence, I looked at his red hair and delicate features, my own heart a rapid beat as well.

Jules Bernard. One of the production assistants - the one, in fact, that was in charge of the contents in the spare dressing room. A man rarely seen, rarely spoken to.

My eyes widened at him.

This couldn't be Erik, could it? Erik's true identity?

But then he opened his mouth to speak, and all suspicion left my mind. His voice was too high, too nasally, to be Erik's. "Mademoiselle Daae?"

"Monsieur Bernard," I greeted back, as though we were meeting one another on a stroll in the Bois.

He looked at the lantern in my hand and brought his eyes back up to me in a panic. "You should not be in here."

I wondered then, how much he knew. No doubt he'd been the one to leave the key, so if this was where Erik had been hiding during our conversation, Jules Bernard was likely a clear connection to the Phantom.

Somehow. Someway.

I gave the man a pleasant, if not shy, smile. "Do forgive me, Jules, but I was on my way to visit Erik. I'm not at all sure where I am going. Can you perhaps help?"

So stupid. So reckless. I'd curse myself for this later, I was sure.

Jules's eyes went impossibly rounder. "Erik invited you?"

"Yes. But I'm unsure of my way. Embarrassing, I know." I shrugged lightly.

He looked at me strangely. "How do you know his name? I'm the only one who knows..."

"He gave it to me."

"He did?"

"Yes. He told me about the mirror door as well-"

"I...was...unaware that Erik took guests." He didn't seem disbelieving; rather, he seemed bewildered. Shocked. Erik was truly a hermit then, if it hadn't been clear enough already. What was Jules's role to him?

"Oh, yes. He even gave me a key to use, but I noticed one was already in place." The lie tumbled out. "Might you show me the way?"

He pursed his lips, considering. He pushed his tongue out just slightly and said, "Did he not...give you a map, then?"

"I...please forgive me Jules..." I gave him a charming little look of shame. "I forgot it at home. But surely it won't be too difficult to find the way. I can likely get there myself, if you are unable to assist. I understand."

Oh, I was being manipulative. I knew that. I felt almost bad for the man as a small look of alarm went over his face at the idea of allowing Erik's guest wander alone in the dark halls. "Perhaps, Mademoiselle, you could stay here and I could go to Erik and..." He trailed off. 

"Make sure he is expecting me?" I thought quickly. That wouldn't do. I sighed. "Perhaps I can come back another day, then. I will let him know that I forgot my map, that you were unable to help, which I do understand, and I'm sure he will understand too-"

"No, no!" he said quickly. "No, no need for that." He swallowed. "You're really here to visit him?" When I nodded, he gave a shuddering breath and added, "Bless you, Mademoiselle."

I couldn't tell, truly, whether this was said in warning or in thanks.

Either way, Jules Bernard obliged. He picked up his broken lantern and showed me the path to the Phantom's lair.


	20. Erik

It was nearing Ayesha's dinnertime, and she knew it.

The diamond on her collar swung as she leapt up onto the counter while I prepared my own dinner - a simple chicken dish with green beans, made with the groceries Jules had just delivered. I'd never much cared for food, for taste. I liked bitter and plain. Thank God, at least, that I didn't have to share meals with others. I doubted my palate was commonplace.

My darling little cat sat next to my freshly made plate of food and meowed long and high. I looked at her and chuckled. "Yes. All right. You're absolutely correct."

I set to work on her meal before I started on mine. The minute I finished plating the bit of tuna, I placed it in front of her. She devoured it. Her soft purrs were thanks enough, and I stroked her behind the ears in response. She purred louder.

I brought my food to the table, poured myself the cabernet I'd already set there, picked up my fork and knife, and-

The bell rang.

I frowned. Had Jules...forgotten something? I couldn't imagine what. But he made sure to visit as little as possible, so it couldn't have been trivial.

Ayesha came trotting into the dinging room, licking her chops, watching me. I raised a brow at her. "What could that man possibly need?"

A cat, she didn't respond.

Sighing through my nostrils - less nostrils, really, than two gaping holes in the middle of my face - I donned my mask and hat and coat where they were hanging by the door, and went to the boat. I pushed it away from the dock and out onto the lake.

I saw the lantern glow, saw him, and when I was close enough, I shouted, "Monsieur Bernard! I was just about to eat my dinner, so I do hope that this is important-"

I froze.

That wasn't Jules.

Well, Jules was there, but he wasn't the one holding the lantern. No, in the darkness, I could make out the form of a woman.

My breath turned shallow.

Was that?...

Hands quivering, I moved again, but slowly. The boat sliced through the water silently, and the closer I became, the more I confirmed it.

Yes. That was Christine.

Well, she was looking right at me. I couldn't very well turn back now, could I? I suppose I could have, but I doubted she'd ever speak to me again for the rudeness.

She might not speak to me anyway, after seeing what I looked like, where I lived.

And if she was disgusted by it, would she tell others? Would she let loose the information of where the Phantom lived? Would I have to, once again, scrounge for lodgings in Paris, like I'd had to in my twenties?

How did she know where to find me at all? I doubted Jules had slipped it to her.

And yet, there he was. Next to her. Had he...had he actually...told her? If so, for what reason? Had they been friends all this time, without my knowledge?

I docked the boat, my eyes never leaving Christine. She was looking back at me with wide, blue eyes, mouth slightly agape. My lungs felt as though they might collapse as I ripped my gaze from her to Jules, pale in the lanternlight, when he spoke:

"Your guest has arrived, sir."

Christine shifted uncomfortably in my periphery.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "My guest?" I glanced shortly at Christine, who was still staring at me with unnerving intensity. My heart palpitated. "I did not invite anyone."

Jules blinked, then took on an expression of mortification. He whirled on Christine. "Then how- how-" He stammered off as she looked away, reddening. "You said...you told me he invited..." He swallowed thickly, then turned to me. "Sir, she was inside the tunnels, holding a lantern. Near the dressing room. She claimed she was invited by you, that she lost her map, that-" He looked ready to vomit. "Did you tell her about the mirror, sir?"

"No," I whispered. I looked at Christine, who was now watching me again. I wanted to shrink away from her eyes, but refused. This was...surreal. Having her here. "I did not."

Jules turned to her again. I'd never seen him so red. "Then how did you know about the door?" he asked her. "How did you know to slide it?"

"I saw the key in the lock," she whispered finally, "and figured it out."

What?

"You left the key in the lock?" I asked him, voice turning lethal. Jules blanched, and refused to meet my gaze. "You are meant to turn the lock and get inside before the locks snap into place - ten seconds is plenty of time. You can unlock it again from the inside."

But I knew why he kept the key in the wall, even without asking. The key couldn't be removed while the mirror was unlocked, and Jules had always expressed concern over locking the door - though he'd eventually relented and said he would. Clearly he hadn't. Clearly he hadn't gotten over the fear of finding that the key to get out wouldn't work, and he'd be trapped in these catacombs, this dark labyrinth, this lair, alone with me. Even if it risked a security breach, like this one, he wouldn't risk being trapped - as if I wouldn't assist him out.

I merely looked away from him, back to Christine. Somehow, I wasn't completely falling apart in her presence, under her gaze. It was, I think, too much like a dream. And that feeling, that this wasn't entirely real, granted me strength. "Christine."

Not a greeting. Not a prompt. A question.

She responded. "Erik."

I nodded. "Why...why have you come?"

"I wanted to see you. To meet you."

My guarded heart softened. "You fooled my assistant."

She pursed her lips. "I'm sorry. I didn't know how else to-"

"I told you that I didn't want to meet." The words were low. I meant them. This was not how I wanted this to happen - I didn't want it to happen at all. Now that she'd seen me, she'd never wish to speak with me again. And that made me angry - angry at her, for ruining this thing I'd found so much joy in. I looked away.

A beat. "I'm sorry. But it's not fair...for you to have seen me and me not to have...seen you."

Jules cleared his throat. "Shall I take her to the surface, sir?"

"Not yet," I responded, and he took a step back. I looked at Christine again. "Are you satisfied, then? To have met me, in the flesh?"

She didn't answer my question. "Why do you wear a mask?"

"I am not a handsome man."

"The rumors of your face are true, then."

I grimaced. "I'm sure whatever you'd been told is untrue."

"Then-"

"My face is undoubtedly worse." There was very little point in lying to her. Any other explanation could be more suspicious - a hidden identity, though plenty mysterious, did not scream 'trustworthy', and would likely only make her desire to see my face more than she already potentially did.

She looked around her - at her cavernous, dark surroundings. At the lantern on my gondola. She tilted her head. "And...is this where you..." Her eyes went to mine. "Live?"

Even if I said no, should she decide to spread the word of what she'd seen, this would be the first place people would look for me. If they wanted to find me. Which they likely would, if at least for the intrigue. So, again, there was little point in lying: "Yes. Across the lake."

"Why?"

"Look at me, Christine."

She didn't balk. "I am."

"Then you will see why I have been run out of every Parisian neighborhood before I could become settled there. Pushed out of rented spaces. Refused purchase of private property. So when I assisted in the building of this opera house, I designed a home for myself beneath it. It was the last chance I had at a decent home, one that wasn't infested with rats, criminals, or both."

"And you extort money from the managers to pay for your life here." It wasn't a question. She was merely putting all of the pieces together. Sharp.

I smirked in response.

"And," she continued, watching me quizzically, "you play pranks, allow people to call you the Phantom because..."

"Because this is my theatre, and I should have a say in how it's run."

Her brows rose. "Your theatre?"

"As I said, I helped build it."

She didn't argue with that, though her eyes challenged it. Again, that stirring inside me. I quelled it as soon as it came.

"Now," I said, "I really should return you to the surface. We can continue our lessons on Monday - if you should so like."

"I would."

I didn't want to admit the relief I felt at that. I nodded, and looked to my assistant, who watched Christine with muted annoyance. "Jules?"

"Yes, sir."

"Escort Christine, if you please, to-"

She cut in: "But I'd like to continue my lessons here."

I whipped my gaze to her. "I beg your pardon?"

She lifted her chin. "I'd like to continue my lessons in your home."

I sputtered, blinking. I...The absolute nerve of- "Are you inviting yourself, a second time, to my house?"

Not a crack of shame on her face. "Yes."

I made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. I...I never... "I may not be up to date with propriety, Christine, but-"

"You spoke in my ear while watching me through a two-way mirror. Is propriety your first concern, really?"

I...was...flabbergasted.

Gone, it seemed, was the sweet, lonely girl who'd begged me for friendship, who'd smiled and giggled at my voice upon our meeting. Replaced by...something entirely different, though perhaps not exactly unwelcome. I'd never been spoken to in such a forward, confident way. Save for those who sought to harm me - but that hadn't been confidence, it had been cruelty. It hadn't been a forward nature, it had been a domineering one.

To have someone look me in the eye and challenge me, as an equal?

I smiled, remembering her snark in the first few letters she'd sent; the sarcasm that had turned quickly to pleading. The neediness had endeared me to her, but the former had been a delight.

This was that delightful girl. And I think I liked her a bit better.

"Fine," I said, and I think Jules's mouth fell open. "But do the Girys know where you will be? Surely they will be concerned if they come looking for you in the theatre and you are nowhere to be found."

"I'll think of something to tell them."

I narrowed my eyes, thinking. "Like what?"

"I don't know."

My smile grew. "I do." I turned to my assistant. "Jules."

"Sir."

"I will need your assistance. Again."


	21. Christine

He was tall. Thin. Imposing. He looked, in fact, every bit the frightening phantom he claimed to be.

For a moment, upon seeing him, I regretted all of my choices. I regretted tricking Jules into bringing me here. I regretted ever speaking to him at all. I realized, in those few seconds when his form came into view, just how vulnerable I was. Weaponless, in the dark, with one man I'd never seen and one man I'd never spoken to. I was a sitting duck, cornered between two foxes.

And even if I outran them, I had no idea of my way back.

But then I saw Erik's eyes, when he was close enough to be really looked at. I saw the hardness there, yes, but there was a gentle undercurrent. An intelligent spark that held no threat. I relaxed. So different from, say, Buquet, whose constant glint sent cold shivers down my back.

That gentle gaze, that feeling of relaxation, was the push I needed to regain my confidence. Though there was always the possibility of harm, I had already made my bed. To fear sleeping in it would only cause anxiety, and would do very little good.

His honesty helped, as well. No hiding of the fact that he wore a mask due to ugliness, nor any lie against the obvious detail that he lived somewhere across that dark lake. In a word, I felt trust for him. Nothing like the trust I felt for Madame and Meg, or even the other ballet girls. But a tentative feeling of safety. That I would, in fact, be fine.

And his mannerisms. Fluid, graceful, yet sharp - not unlike a spider. Though Meg feared them terribly, I'd always had a bit of a fondness for the little creatures. It wasn't their fault they were hideous - they were useful, anyway. I told Meg often that, were it not for spiders, Paris would likely be overrun with flies. That only earned me a look of disgust before I took the arachnid outside to freedom, safe - if not frightened - in a small jar.

And though I'd only just met him, when he asked Jules to return me to the surface - further proof that I was indeed out of harm's way - I didn't want to go. Something about him was strangely alluring. He wasn't handsome - goodness, no. And even without the gaunt features, he looked to be twice my age. But still, there was a sort of magnetic energy that I'd never felt before. I wanted to see more. Know more. Not just about the identity of the Phantom, now, but him. Himself.

So I asked - demanded, really - to come back. I saw his shock at the utter change in my personality, but I didn't back down. And when he at last relented, smiled even, I felt immense giddiness, but I didn't let it show.

He explained his plan to me, the one that would present a reasonable excuse for why I would disappear for a few hours five times a week. I thought it sounded fine. Simple, but perhaps that was all that was needed.

And he tasked Jules with escorting me above ground.

Now, this? This was uncomfortable.

Jules walked ahead of me after leaving Erik behind, leaving him to float back across the lake. The assistant held the working lantern up, not speaking to me. His shoulders looked stiff, and his gait was hurried. So much so that I had to speed up, my breath starting to come in slightly shallow.

As we went, my guilt for how I'd lied to him grew. I knew he hadn't deserved that. When I predicted that we were perhaps halfway there, I finally opened my mouth. "Monsieur Bernard?"

He didn't respond.

So I cleared my throat and tried again: "Monsieur Bernard?"

"I apologize, Mademoiselle, but I really must focus on the tunnels - they tend to twist and turn, and we don't want to get lost." His voice held an edge.

"I only wanted to say I was sorry."

"No need, Mademoiselle Daae, no need. No need at all." But his tone and words did not communicate the same message.

"I really am-"

"I must focus, Christine. Here - you see that fork ahead? One wrong turn and we could be lost for hours. Please leave me be."

So I stayed quiet the rest of the trip. Hopefully, he didn't hate me forever. But I'd likely hate me too. I'd just lied to him, caused him to make a fool of himself in front of his employer. It had been a mean thing to do.

He didn't say a word to me as we left the tunnels for the dressing room, as he pulled the key from the lock and the mirror door clicked. He didn't speak to me as he gave a curt little bow and handed me a note to give to Madame Giry, a note that would provide an excuse as to my frequent absences. Even the contents of that note were an annoyance to him, I could tell, as Erik had taken advantage of Jules's family. He'd involved his wife - with Monsieur Bernard's permission, of course.

But I doubted Jules ever said no to Erik. I had the feeling that he didn't dare.

The note in my hand, I also made my way home - already feeling a dreamlike excitement at what Monday might bring.


	22. Meg

I was swimming in the Seine.

I knew, of course, that I shouldn't be doing this; and honestly, I couldn't even remember learning how to swim at all. The river was filthy, full of dirt and debris. But something about it was calling to me. Isabelle had asked me to come with her. I'd seen her round the corner and take a running jump into the water. So I'd done the same.

But she was nowhere to be found.

Under the twinkling night sky, I floated on my back, hoping she'd show up soon. I saw buildings pass, horses trot by and people walk, as I moved downriver slowly. The moon was full, making Paris bright. I sighed happily, closing my eyes. Everything was peaceful. I'd been so fretful these past few days, but I couldn't for the life of me remember why. I'd spent time with a sweet, handsome boy. I'd performed beautifully opening night. What could possibly be wrong.

As kicked lightly, pushing myself with gentle movements through the water, I could see that the night had darkened, even through my closed lids. I opened my eyes again, only to find that think, black clouds had covered the stars and moon. There were no more horses. No more people. The buildings turned shabby, rundown. No one lived in this part of the city, it seemed. No one lived in these cursed streets.

I frowned, and was about to right myself to swim back, when my head bumped into something. I turned and saw long, chestnut hair attached to a pale head. I smiled, recognizing the hair color and facial profile of Isabelle Garneau, when more of her face came into view.

Too pale. Unmoving.

Dead.

And naked, I saw with panic. Stark naked. With blood between her legs-

My breath came in sharply and I turned to move, to go back, but my breath halted in my throat, my eyes widened, at what I saw.

An absolute sea of young women - ballet girls - floating and dead in the Seine, all with the bloodstains to prove just how they'd been violated.

I wanted to move for the river's edge, but the bodies were floating up from the deep. I could feel them under my feet, under my hands. I couldn't get through them, and as I twisted and turned I saw that I, too, was without clothes.

Two hands gripped my ankles and I was pulled down, down, into the waters of death. Unable to get away, I let out a scream, soundless for the liquid now in my lungs-

\- - - - - - - - - -

"Meg."

I gasped, sweet air filling my chest. I sat up, and could feel the slick sweat on my skin. Sitting on the foot of my bed was Christine, concern lacing her features. Her hand was covering my shaking one as she leaned over.

"What happened?" she asked. "You were whimpering in your sleep."

I blinked several times, the image of the body-filled Seine already fading into the recesses of my mind. The feeling of dread, of terror, however, lingered with a ferocious grip.

"Nightmare?" She cocked her head, sympathy in the gesture.

I nodded.

She paused. "About Isabelle?"

Nausea roiling in my stomach, I nodded again.

Christine sighed lightly, and then pushed some of my hair behind my ear. "You went to bed so early last night. You didn't even eat dinner with your Maman and me."

"I was tired."

She looked down, knowing as well as I that my exhaustion hadn't been physical.

"I'm going to be taking painting lessons," she said suddenly, eyes still down. "From Jules Bernard's wife."

My brows raised at her. "The production assistant?"

She nodded, smiling. "He and I were speaking, and I mentioned to him that I've always wanted to learn to paint-"

"You have?"

A beat, and then she shrugged. "Well, I suppose I've kept it to myself."

"When will you be painting?"

"In the mornings before rehearsals. Or in the afternoons before performances. I talked to your mother last night about it - with everything that has happened...well. She wasn't keen on me going to a near stranger's apartment. So she agreed as long as she could meet his wife - make sure she is real, I think."

"Are they free lessons?"

"No, I have to pay. But because I am her husband's coworker, she is giving me a reduced rate."

"Oh." That was all I could really say. This was so...random. But Christine had been a bit secretive lately. Wanting to stay late, go early to the theatre. Half of me wondered if she really was speaking to the Phantom - but with everything that had happened, I'd forgotten about our deal. I didn't really care about it anymore.

But...with Jules. When had she spoken to that strange, quiet man? The red-haired, funny little man who never spoke to anyone, barely met anyone's eyes, stayed to the corners of the theatre. I couldn't recall them ever speaking.

And...how did a conversation even start, between them? And why? The man seemed to constantly jump at his own shadow - lucky, really, that he worked in props and not in sound or light - he'd yelp at every sudden noise or atmospheric stage hue. The man was kind, I was sure, but odd. He'd worked here as long as the theatre had been open, according to my mother, but his only job was to tend to the strange dressing room full of spare props. I felt, often, that his role was not entirely necessary, but perhaps there was more to his job that the managers were not letting on.

No one knew. No one talked to him.

Except for the props master, the managers, and, apparently, Christine.

She leaned in and kissed my cheek. "I'm going to make breakfast. Crepes?"

"With raspberries," I said on instinct.

She grinned. "With extra raspberries."


	23. Christine

Meg was having nightmares.

And here I was, about to leave her behind for purely selfish reasons. I shouldn't have been receiving singing lessons from mysterious masked men. I should have been planning to spend every single moment with her, being by her side. So when Monday came and the time arrived for me to go to Jules Bernard's apartment, I heavily debated simply staying home.

In fact, I nearly did it. I looked at her faraway eyes and told her I would stay with her - that I could see that she needed a friend.

She refused. She said that she didn't want me to halt my life for her - that it would honestly make her feel better if I simply acted like everything was normal. She wanted consistency, she said. She wanted the world to stay the same, as much as it possibly could, and didn't want me to draw attention to what was bothering her.

I knew her, though. She did want to talk about it, deep down. She was hurting, even if she was hiding it well.

I tried again, telling her that, no, I would definitely stay behind.

She frowned and shook her head. I could see her shutting down before me.

At that, I dropped it. Though I knew she wanted a friend, she was convincing even herself that she wanted solitude. I'd pushed her before, pressing her to talk when I saw her panic at making a dancing mistake, and it only ever ended in unproductive tears.

I wondered how Isabelle had managed to break through her shell of perfection to the vulnerability underneath. How she had managed to help Meg to open up. I'd tried it all - telling her I was here for her, that I thought the world of her, that she could trust me. But she would merely smile and look away.

I'd be there for her when and if she needed me - once she desired to talk to me, I'd listen. But I wouldn't push her boundaries if she was telling me no.

So I left Meg to read quietly in her room and left the apartment with Madame. I told Madame of my conversation with her daughter. Madame merely smiled sadly and nodded; she knew Meg well. "She appreciates the concern more than she lets on."

The sun was peeking through white clouds as we made our way through the busy streets of Paris, toward the Bernard home. She questioned me once or twice about how and why I'd struck up conversation with the man - as she'd done the night I'd told her I'd receive lessons - but I said the same as before. I simply spoke to him. I simply said hello. He was friendly enough - friendlier than people gave him credit for. And his wife, alone all day with an apartment full of children, wanted the company.

Madame, hard to read, merely nodded. I couldn't tell if that satisfied her or not. I looked ahead, eyes dropping to the ground several yards in front of us, hoping that it did.

"This looks to be it," she said at last. She looked up at the building, looking like a shrewd, inquisitive raven - clad completely in black, hair tied tightly back, and eyes narrowed. "Shall I return to retrieve you?"

"In three hours time."

Her brows raised. "Three?"

"Yes." Had I not mentioned how long? I thought quickly. "She desires not just painting, but socialization, you see. Tea, and lunch, perhaps."

She nodded slowly. "This is all rather sudden."

"Are you concerned, Madame?"

"I am."

"Why?"

"There is a killer on the loose."

I blinked. "They caught-"

"Yes. I know. But it doesn't sit right with me."

I nearly sighed in frustration - Madame had always been a bit conspiratorial. Believing things based on feelings rather than facts. Religious to an extreme, and with it, a bit too distrusting of her actual reality. Of course the killer had been caught - the proof was right there, in front of our noses.

"I don't think Jules Bernard had anything to do with the murder," I said, giving her a reassuring smile. "Truly. The man seems gentle enough." I meant this - had either Jules or Erik been the type to harm, I'd be dead within the dark hallways under the theatre. I'd be sinking to the bottom of that strange lake. They'd had their chance to hurt me, could have done so easily, but had passed on it. Even if there was still a murderer loose, I doubted it was them.

Of course, I'd been wrong before. But that was the evidence I saw, and facts do not tend to lie.

Her brows flicked upward and her lips twisted. "I am not saying it is Jules - I am merely nervous around any man at this point. Isabelle was one of my girls. You are like my daughter. Meg is my actual daughter. I am not at ease."

"I understand, Madame."

She sighed, and clasped her hands before her. "Yes, well... Let's meet Madame Bernard, shall we?"

So that she could effectively deem her to be certifiably not-evil, of course. I led the way toward the entrance, the address that I'd been given. They lived, it seemed, on the second floor. So we made our way inside and up the L-shaped stairs nestled between two walls, and knocked on their apartment door.

A round-faced woman with black hair and green eyes answered. She smiled at us. At me. "You must be Christine."

"Yes, Madame." A stepped to the side a bit and gestured to the woman beside me. "This is Madame Giry. My guardian."

Madame gave a small nod, and the woman in the doorway answered in kind. "A pleasure. I am Madame Bernard - you may call me Annette. Come in, please."

Madame Giry thanked Annette as she walked into the space, me in tow. Annette closed the door behind us.

It was a cozy space - green-colored wallpaper, with a couple of small oceanic paintings hanging. Two chairs at a small table against one wall, at which two red-haired girls sat playing cards. At the far wall, a bookcase full of novels. And at the wall opposite the table, a fireplace, in front of which was a green-and-white sofa with two similarly colored armchairs on either side. Jules sat in one of the armchairs, a small black-haired child in his lap, and looked to be in the middle of reading the boy a story.

He nodded, not bothering to get up to greet us properly. He gave me a close-lipped, tight smile. "Madame. Mademoiselle."

"Good afternoon, Monsieur Bernard," said Madame Giry. Her eyes lingered on him only a moment longer, and then she turned to Annette. "I do not see any painting materials."

"Oh, yes. It will be in the recreation room."

"The painting room." Jules's eyes smiled as he took in his wife. The little boy in his lap squirmed, tired of adults talking about uninteresting matters. "That's the only recreation that really takes place there."

Annette smiled back and brushed her hair out of her face. She was a bit plump with an extremely pretty face. "Very true." She turned to us. "Come. I will show you where we will work."

And she did. She gave us a tour of the space where she apparently worked quite often - it hadn't been a lie that Madame Bernard painted. That had been true enough, though this small piece of reality made it easier to tell the rest of the lie. Madame was convinced. And the fact that Jules had plenty of children, at least three by the looks of it, and a gentle and motherly wife, here in the flesh, made her relax.

She bid me goodbye shortly after, telling me she'd be back in three hours' time.

The moment she was gone, Annette turned to me. I watched, too, as Jules put the child on the ground and stood. "I have plenty of paintings," she said, "crude ones, for if your family ever asks to see your progress."

I nodded, listening. Jules went for his keys and wallet.

"I've never met Erik," she said, "but Jules speaks well of him - a secretive benefactor to the Opera House, and easy on the eyes to add!" She looked to be about to giggle, but Jules looked at her with a whip-like turn of his head.

"Annette," he said, eyes wide.

She ignored him. "It's wonderful that you are taking singing lessons from him - and in his mansion, no less! So grand. He met Jules at the theatre and offered him a position on the side buying him groceries and clothes and all other sorts of supplies. To have so much money...to pay someone to-"

"Annette, we must be off." Jules was staring intently at me. "I will be back shortly."

"Of course, love." She smiled at me. "It was lovely to meet you. Of course I understand why you'd want to keep it so secret - spending several hours with a handsome rich bachelor would make many tongues wag-"

"Mademoiselle Daae, if you please, this way."

I bid Annette goodbye, and the woman seemed sorely disappointed to have our conversation cut short. A nice woman, if a bit too cheerful for my liking. The thing that bothered me, though, was how her perception of Erik was vastly different from what I knew of him.

When Jules and I were at the stoop of the apartment building, I looked at his frowning, downcast, face - full of uneasy thoughts - and said, voice quiet, "You didn't tell Madame Bernard who Erik actually-"

"I didn't," he answered shortly, not looking at me, "and I would prefer to keep her ignorant of the truth. She'd insist I quit - and we'd lose the majority of my income."

We walked for a bit in silence, and then he spoke again, making me wince:

"I know you have a penchant for sticking your nose in places no one invited it, but do mind your own affairs."


	24. Erik

She wanted - wanted - to come back. She'd invited herself into my home. Looked me in the eye and demanded that she return. No fear for me. None at all. No disgust in her features, or closed-off timidity, or even a feigned pleasantness to hide her true feelings of discomfort. No, the look of confidence on her face was entirely genuine.

It had, at first, given me a feeling of excitement. It had made me feel hopeful, for the first time in a long time. My wildest fantasies, of escorting her to my home, of her wishing to be escorted there, had come true - by some insane grace. Some strange forgotten god had heard my wants and desires and granted them to me, very much against my will.

I'd gone back to my house, drafted up a letter for her to take to Madame Giry, and met the waiting Christine and Jules across the lake once more. When they left, when I went again to my home, was the moment I felt it.

The panic.

Christine was going to see the inside of my home. The cold, dark walls and gothic features, so unlike the brightness of Parisian apartments and houses. If my appearance didn't deter her, surely the place I lived would...

I'd frozen in place in the middle of the water, standing still in my boat.

Upstairs.

I could never show her what was upstairs. The coffin.

God.

She'd swim her damn way to the other side of the lake if she saw it. Crawl her way up to the surface in the dark.

I shuddered, and forced myself to go to that house of gloom. The house I'd put so much pride into building, and now regretted beyond measure.

The time between her leaving and her arrival was barely two days, but felt like two years. I barely slept or ate - not that I did much of either regardless. But it was once again difficult for me to focus on much of anything. Music. Books. Art. Nothing existed in my mind except what Christine might say to my house. My windowless stone prison of a house.

And when Monday at last arrived, when it was just past noon, I made my way up to the surface. My heart pounded, and everything from my shoulders and knees to my fingers and toes felt utterly lacking in strength. I pushed on, though, gripping the lantern with as much control as I could, moving the boat in the straightest path my arms would allow. Every step up, up to the surface felt an inch closer to ruin.

Perhaps I was overreacting. Perhaps she would not care.

I grimaced at my own naivete. Yes, Erik, good. And perhaps she would look at your bare face and not care about that either. Perhaps she was completely void of reasonable human reaction.

But she'd seen the lake, the boat, and that hadn't elicited more than curiosity in her...and she wanted to return, so-

I forced myself to climb a bit faster. Speculation would only cause a headache. The truth of her tolerance would come out soon.

I at last made it to the mirror door that led into the dressing room. Light poured into the hallways through the glass, and I could see with a pang of sharp nerves the faces of Jules and Christine. Neither looked at one another. They were looking down, a full foot apart, as though they were two strangers who'd arrived to a party at the same time, both waiting to be let in.

Quite a party it would be.

I put my key in the lock and turned it. The mirror clicked, and two sets of blue eyes looked up in mild surprise and anticipation. I slid the mirror open, and Christine's eyes widened just a bit further, but made no other change in her facial expression. I realized that she'd only seen me in dim light, with merely two lanterns illuminating me in an otherwise black space. Now, in a well-lit room, she could see every detail.

The thought made me feel ill, but I pushed it down.

"Sir," said Jules then, straightening, "I brought her to the dressing room and no further, as you instructed."

Eager as ever to show he was following my instructions to the T, I saw. I made no comment on it, knowing the reason. "Thank you, Monsieur Bernard."

Jules gave a small bow. "Is there anything else you need of me?"

"No, you are dismissed, Jules."

"Yes, sir." He bowed again. While low, he said, "I will return in two hours, yes?"

"Yes."

Jules did not look at Christine, though she'd started watching him. Instead, he righted himself and said, "Right, sir. Goodbye, sir."

Sir. Every time, he called me sir. And not from deference, not from respect, but from a genuine fright that calling me Erik instead would lead to his punishment - despite my reassuring him of the opposite. That I would prefer it, in fact.

But it was sir.

Always sir.

Yes, sir.

Very good, sir.

Can I get you anything else, sir?

May I crawl up your ass, sir? Lick your boots, sir?

I frowned and looked away from him. Jules left us behind, closing the dressing room door behind him. Christine's attention turned back to me. She didn't speak - merely watched me.

I gave a bow of my own and extended a black leather gloved hand. My salt-and-pepper hair, slicked back, remained perfectly in place. "Shall we?"

She regarded my hand for a moment, and I had a flash of horror that she'd shrink away from my fingers, but she placed her palm tentatively in mine. I stood straight and led her inside, then slid the mirror closed and locked it. Holding the lantern up with one hand and Christine in the other, I led her down to my lair.

It was silent for the first few minutes, and in that time, I half-expected her to pull her fingers from my grasp, but she didn't. In fact, at some moments - especially when we rounded a sharp corner or descended stairs - her grip tightened ever so slightly, and a flutter went through my chest.

It was while we descended the stairs that she finally spoke: "You said that you helped build this theatre?"

"I did."

A pause, the only sound our footsteps on the stone steps.

"Then," she continued, "why have I never heard your name? I've only ever heard of Charles Garnier."

"The official architect," I responded. "I helped him, in secret. He won a contest to build the theatre before I had the chance to enter, but I showed him my plans for the interior. I assured him that I needed no recognition, I merely wanted to work on the building, that helping to create it was enough for me. He was convinced. So while he took the credit for the entire theatre, I made the plans for everything inside the building's enormous walls."

Another silence. "Then I assume you designed these catacombs."

"Of course."

"Did he know?"

"Yes. And the builders. But only Garnier knows that this is where I live - the builders had no idea what the underground house was for, and their confusion was quite amusing."

"Hm." I could feel and hear her thinking. "You truly cannot find housing anywhere else?"

"I've tried. I can find living spaces easily in the slums, but I've worked too hard to resort to that. No respectable apartments will have me. When I managed once or twice to purchase a house, the neighbors drove me out with their vitriol. No one wants an eerie masked man living next door."

"I'm sorry."

For the first time, I looked back at her. She was watching me with interest, though I could detect a hint of... I turned back around, face twisting under my mask. She was looking at me like I was a homeless, mangey pup.

"I don't want pity, Christine."

She didn't say anything, but her fingers twitched in what I assume was discomfort.

We reached the dock, and I let go of her hand to hook the lantern on the tip of the gondola. I stepped into the boat, which rocked very lightly, but I'd long since mastered my balance. I held out my palm once again, leaning over to offer my assistance onto the boat. She accepted, and I pulled her gently aboard as she gripped her skirts so as not to trip.

"Sit," I said, "if you please, Christine."

She nodded, and rested herself on a long-unused seat. Taking a long breath, I put the oar into the water and pushed us toward the house.

Christine was quiet, looking around her with quiet curiosity, though there was not much she could likely see that wasn't within close range. The light didn't extend very far forward. About halfway across the lake, though, I noticed how white her knuckles had become, as though it had suddenly truly hit her that she was completely at my mercy - a position I doubted she enjoyed. I wouldn't have enjoyed it. I'd been in that position and indeed hated it.

I wondered if she could swim, or if she felt she was truly trapped - would be trapped, if I decided I didn't want to bring her back across the lake.

I couldn't see her eyes, as I was standing behind her, but I imagined there was regret there. The makings of panic.

"They say there are mermaids in these waters," I said then.

She whirled to face me, expression incredulous. "Mermaids?"

I smiled and nodded.

"Who says?

"The ghosts of Paris. The real ones."

She regarded me only a second, then sighed and turned around, facing the front once again. "Don't be ridiculous."

I raised a brow at the back of her head.

Well. I'd forgotten about her cynical nature.

But I could see that she'd relaxed. At least there was that.

At last at the house, I docked and helped her out. Now. This was the moment of truth. And I was entirely unprepared.

I led her up the cobblestone path and steps, past the potted flowers on the hard rock floor, and finally to my doorstep. No mailbox or address number there, of course. Though I supposed it would have been humorous had I added them. The image of a mailman trekking down to the depths of Paris, only to smack his own forehead and see that, dash it all, my house was number 127. He was looking for 172. Ah well. Back to the surface.

I smiled, and she stared at me.

"Is something funny?" she asked.

"Nothing at all," I responded, and let her into my home, my smile disappearing as I switched on the electricity - a luxury - and the lights of the foyer chandelier flickered to life.

I avoided her gaze for a while, merely closing the door behind us. In the silence, I could hear the echoing sounds of her light footsteps on the marble floor as she walked inside. I could feel her staring at the stone walls, the dark tapestries.

"This is...grand," she whispered into the quiet, "like something from King Arthur's court. A medieval wonder."

I looked at her in disbelief. "It...pleases you? You like it?" I said it, perhaps, too desperately.

She turned to me, staring at me with a funny expression. "Pleases me?"

I only stared back.

"I...suppose, yes." She nodded. "Yes, I like it. But it's your house, so whether it pleases me is not a concern. I don't live here, do I?" She tilted her head. "Are you always concerned over whether your guests like your home?"

"You would be the first."

"First?"

"Guest."

Something sad shuttered in her eyes, then she crossed her arms. "Right. I forgot. You 'rarely receive post', yes?"

She gave a cheeky smile, recalling back one of the first things I'd said to her in my letters, and I grinned. "Yes, absolutely correct." I extended an arm toward the parlor, to our right. "Lessons, then? We will start with scales - you are a bit flat. Don't take it as an insult, of course, but get any flatter and my ears might bleed. We will have to remedy that first. Right this way."


	25. Raoul

I remembered flowers this time.

But this time, Meg - and her mother - were coming to meet me, in my own apartment. I'd started by sitting on my couch, attempting to busy myself with reading a novel, but as I watched Janelle, my maid, clean at a worryingly steady pace, I actually hopped off the seat and blurted out, "What can I do to help?"

She'd looked at my feverish expression and laughed, which earned my cheeks a hot redness. She knew that the Girys were coming. I'd told her at least ten times - ensured that she would be making something delicious for the two ladies to enjoy. She told me not to worry, that she would be done by mid-afternoon, but I only repeated my question more insistently.

So she tasked me with dusting, if I was so adamant. She'd already dusted, but I didn't argue. I wanted to do something, even if I had no idea what I was doing.

I needn't have worried: the house was spotless two hours before Meg would arrive, and Janelle had plenty of time to finish dinner.

"This must be important company," she mused as I watched her cook; her graying auburn hair was tied up, and a couple strands were stuck to her forehead with sweat from the kitchen's heat. Though I knew she didn't love my peering into the kitchen, she merely smiled to hide her annoyance. "Never seen you in such a state, sir, if you don't mind my saying."

"I don't mind," I said. And though I did find this to be important company, I didn't say so. She obviously knew regardless.

Dinner was ready ten minutes before the Girys knocked on the door.

Brushing invisible dust from my clothes, I picked up the flowers from the table by the door and greeted Meg and her mother.

Meg was dressed in pink, looking lovely. Her mother was dressed darkly as she had the day I'd come to their home. And though I knew why she was here as well - Meg, a young single woman, needed a chaperone if she wanted to meet with me - I wished that she didn't have to be here. It only made me nervous that I'd make a fool of myself. I hadn't been as afraid of that the other night, but I'd also been so focused on making tea and being present for Meg - who obviously needed a friend.

I'd be present for her today, as well, as best I could. But I was also very much aware that the longer I knew a person - any person - the more likely I was to begin worrying over my words and actions around them. More than I already did. Of course, the Martin twins were so relaxed, so easygoing, that it was never an issue - they were never offended, and laughed at everything. I was comfortable with them - and only them.

I smiled through my nerves and held out the flowers - my arm, perhaps, a bit too straight. Madame Giry raised her thin brows, and Meg started a bit in surprise. I nearly died inside at my own awkwardness, but then Meg smiled widely. "For me?"

"Yes," I said softly. "Violets - I hope you like them."

"I do!" She took the bouquet from me. "Thank you, Raoul - Monsieur Deleon." She glanced at her mother.

"They are lovely." Madame Giry smiled, and I breathed a bit easier.

"Thank you." I made way for them. "Do come in. May I get you some tea?"

Both ladies accepted the offer.

And dinner was soon served.

But while Meg had wanted to be mostly silent the first night, she seemed to want to have more of a conversation today. I still saw the sadness in her eyes, the way she looked away sometimes in her grief, but she clearly was putting in more of an effort to continue life as normal. Or at least pretend at normalcy.

I mostly responded to questions posed by her or her mother, not knowing at all what to talk about. They asked me questions about my life, and I did my very best to avoid the concept of my being a vicomte - I was successful, in fact. I said I was going to school, but kept vague where the money had come from. Wealthy parents, I said - an inheritance. I talked of my brother, but kept his title quiet as well. I tried to keep the conversation on Meg as much as I could.

And did my best to make this seem like I was merely extremely interested in her, rather than desperate to avoid the topic of myself. That earned appreciative glances from both women.

By the end of the dinner, I could see that her mother approved. She was smiling at me more. And Meg looked pleased as well. Upon finished after-dinner coffee and dessert, I saw them off with laughter and a promise to invite them again.

But watching their backs gave me a shiver of anxiety-

The longer I waited to tell them my title, the more of a disaster it would be.

And surely I couldn't hide it forever.


	26. Christine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note - I realized from where I was drawing my inspiration for Erik in this fic, because it wasn't just Kay (this fic's Erik is too mild-mannered and gentle, but still has his quick wit) and I realized that he is a combination of Kay's AND Charles Dance's Erik. Enjoy!

Deep in the Opera Ghost's lair, the infamous Phantom had been given every opportunity to harm me. He'd had the chance to take advantage of me, molest me, mutilate me, kill me. But he did not. In fact, he was ever the kind, gracious host.

And an even better teacher.

I admit that I'd been nervous, deep inside, the entire time. I'd wondered if he might not drown me as we crossed that lake, or take my body as his own on that boat, nothing but the lanternlight and darkness surrounding us. I'd wondered if he wouldn't lead me to a torture chamber to match that medieval house.

But all he did was offer me tea. Teach me how to move my mouth, throat, and diaphragm. All I saw was his parlor, in which there were two black sofas, a large dark mahogany bookcase, and a grand piano. Ornate ebony lamps on the walls, electric like the rest of his house. A red Persian rug on the stone floor.

He sat at the piano and played while he taught me to sing.

And then he brought me back up to the surface, all of our conversation having related to music - my singing, in particular.

He was harmless. Actually harmless.

When he'd returned me up to meet Jules in the dressing room, the last fragment of my fear shriveled to nothing.

So when I came back the next day, there was nothing but anticipation for the lesson to come.

Jules and I didn't speak much on the walk there. We hadn't done so yesterday, either. That was fine, I suppose. I'd already apologized; there wasn't much more I could do. We entered into the dark theatre, eyes taking a moment to adjust after leaving the bright daylight of Paris. We walked through to the dressing room, entered, and stood before the mirror. We waited perhaps two minutes, and it opened again, to reveal Erik.

He was a bit less stiff now. So was I. Jules was nervous as ever.

"Thank you, Monsieur Bernard," said Erik. His assistant bowed and left us.

As he did yesterday, Erik extended a hand and I put mine in his. His fingers were long and thin, and felt hard - bony, even through the thick leather gloves. His entire form looked so. I wondered very vaguely what it might be like to embrace that skeletal form, but quickly pushed the thought out of my mind with a flare of heat to my cheeks.

And we walked through the strange hallways toward the underbelly of the Opera House.

He cleared his throat and glanced back as we turned a corner, the lantern in his hand illuminating the blackness ahead. "You danced beautifully again last night."

"Better than my singing, then?"

He paused, then laughed. "I'd rather hear your singing, at least, than Carlotta's."

I grinned. "Everyone loves Carlotta's voice."

"Society is doomed, then." He turned back around. "Her voice may be well-practiced, but her acting skills absolutely ruin it."

"Oh, never let Carlotta hear you say it, or she will promise to never sing again."

"Don't threaten me with such a lovely thought, my dear."

I let out a huff of a laugh, and he glanced back. There was a glint reminiscent of pleasure in his mismatched eyes.

"She's insufferable, yes," I said, as we descended stairs. I gripped his hand a bit tighter, frightened of the dark depths ahead. "But at least she isn't constantly critiquing the ballet girls like Emma Rougeaux."

"One of the altos."

"Yes. Her sister is a ballerina in London, and so she believes she knows more than any of us. More than Meg. More than Madame. It's awful. And it's never outright comments - just snide little remarks that sound nice but...aren't."

"Like?"

"Like...oh let me think." I looked up at the stone ceiling. "Like...'my, Christine, I wish I was like you. I despise caring about my abilities so much; it would be nice to not care at all. How I envy you!' Little comments." I paused. "Last night was a reprieve, at least. She wasn't here. They had to have an understudy come in for the performance."

"I did notice that."

And one more week of 'Hannibal'. Just one more. This show was supposed to be enjoyable, but Isabelle's disappearance had forever tarnished its music for me.

"I believe she was sick," I added, "she'd been complaining of a ticklish throat for the past few days."

We reached his boat. We floated across the lake. And when we reached his house, I took a bit of a closer look at my surroundings, now that it wasn't such a shock to me. I noticed, first and foremost, that the flowers were not real. Well - how could they be? There was no sunlight down here. Not a flicker of natural light.

I remembered Erik's reason for needing to live underground, and saddened. I pushed it from my mind, just as I had the thought of being wrapped in his arms.

He let me inside.

And we were immediately greeted with a loud, high-pitched yowling to our right. My head whipped in that direction.

A Siamese cat was staring at us, standing on all fours upon a small round table, and meowing like she was personally offended at my presence.

I blinked at the animal, at the diamond collar around its neck, as Erik closed the door behind us with a chuckle.

"Christine, meet my housemate. The true owner of this mansion. Lady Ayesha."

Ayesha sat down and blinked as if in confirmation that this was the truth - she, not Erik, was the master (or mistress) of the house. She licked her chops, still watching me. I liked cats, but her twitching tail and narrowed pupils put me little at ease, so I merely gave her a small smile and watched him remove one of his gloves to pet her.

I stared at his hand. As I'd suspected, it was bony, every knuckle and muscle visible, as though his skin was stretched tightly over everything underneath. And it was mildly discolored - dark blue veins and yellow splotches covered the otherwise pale hand.

He noticed me watching and quickly pulled back his fingers, as though Ayesha's fur was burning. He pulled his glove back on with extreme deftness. His throat was forcefully cleared while he stared at me. I looked away.

I should have told him that it was fine, but that would have only drawn attention to it, and I had the feeling he wouldn't want that. Besides, there were so many better things to point out about him - his voice for example. A voice that could bring down empires, that could reach across solid material to appear inside another's ear-

"How do you do it," I said then, looking at him, "by the way?"

He blinked. "Do...?"

"Throw your voice?"

He eased and smiled. "Practice." He paused. "I could teach you that, too."

I laughed. "Perhaps one day."

His eyes hadn't been hard, but they softened. His lips relaxed - lower lip, really, as only his bottom lip and chin were visible, the skin there quite normal. I realized why with a flush. "One day" implied that there were many days to come.

Perhaps there were. I didn't see an end to the lessons yet.

"Come," he said, and motioned to the parlor. "Let's continue with singing, at least."

\- - - - - - - - - -

I proceeded with going to Erik for the remainder of that week.

That long, long week, in which 'Hannibal' seemed to never end. Meg went to visit Raoul a third time, Madame with her. And the understudy continued filling in for Emma.

Because Emma Rougeaux must have been quite ill. Too ill to let anyone know she couldn't perform. She lived alone, so she likely had no one she could send to let us know, and a knock on her door garnered no response.

For she didn't come the next night either. Or the next night. Or the next night.

Or the next night.


	27. Meg

Emma was sick.

Sick.

She was. She had to be.

Despite the whispers that she was missing - killed - like Isabelle, I wouldn't believe it.

Even when my mother informed me that she believed the girl was dead too. That she suspected she knew who did it.

I'd asked her who. Who? Who could it be?

But she stayed quiet, refusing to say.

On Wednesday, three days after Hannibal's final Sunday performance, she left for the theatre holding a leather satchel. Without me. She didn't tell me why. And because Christine was currently at her painting lesson (again, she'd asked if she should stay, and again I'd made her go), I was alone in the apartment.

She returned an hour later, the satchel looking much more full than it had before. Something - there was something hiding in there.

I watched as she locked the apartment with feverish hands, pale and uncharacteristically wild-eyed. I froze in my seat at the dining table, closing the book I had open.

"Maman?"

She whirled to me. "Meg. Get a sheet of paper."

"I-"

"Now."

I didn't hesitate, though I needed answers. I found her a sheet of paper.

"And a pen, please."

I found her that too. I watched as she wrote quickly.

A note for Christine. A note telling her not to stay here when she returned. Telling her to leave.

Alarm bells rang in my mind. "Maman, what is going on-"

She finished the note. Without so much as folding it, she left it behind on the table, took my hand, and pulled me toward the door.

"I need to get you somewhere...not here. They might come for you next."

"Who?" We had reached the door. My mother set about unlocking the bolts. I blinked. What had been the point of locking them at all? Had she been afraid of someone...coming in? If that was the case, then wouldn't going back out be more dangerous?

"I cannot say." We were out into Paris. My mother looked around, eyes darting, but when she found nothing, she sighed in relief. "I won't say until they are behind bars. I found evidence. But I cannot say. I cannot risk you talking, putting yourself at risk."

"I won't say-"

"No, Meg." She walked a bit, pulling me along, until she managed to hail a cab. The horse came to a stop, and she forced me in, telling the cabbie a familiar address.

I looked at her incredulously when she climbed in after me and the cab started forward. "Raoul?"

My mother didn't so much as nod. "You will be safe there."

"Safe from who?" My heart hammered.

"I cannot say, Meg. I can't. I will be back as soon as I can. I need to take my evidence to the detective."

And true to her word, she refused to tell me anymore.

We reached Raoul's apartment. Knocked on the door. Janelle, the maid, answered and informed her master of who was here. Raoul, the darling man, looked shocked at our presence, confused. He hadn't invited us.

"Is everything all right?" His gaze went from me, to my mother, and back to me. A deep frown was on his face at my mother's severe expression, at my obvious fright.

"No." My mother pushed me forward, toward the door. "I cannot explain until later, Monsieur Deleon, but this is the safest place for Meg. Anyone else we know is associated with the theatre, anyone else is a risk - you are not. I will return soon."

"What about Christine?" I asked her. "Will she come here too?"

"No. I can't tell her where you are; I left it vague in that note - the killer could find it before she does."

"Then where will she go?"

"Back to Jules Bernard."

"Then why not send me there with her?" I liked Raoul, but in this moment, I wanted Christine. Christine's unwavering bravery.

"I do not want you in the same place. Should the killer find one of you, then I'd rather they not find both of you - I'd rather not lose you both in one go. Until the killer is dealt with, I want you separated. Spread out. Safe, but spread out."

"What if Jules is-"

"It's not Jules."

Raoul had paled; he'd been pale for a while now. "Killer?"

"Stay here," she said to me. She turned to him. "Keep her safe."

The poor dear boy only nodded, still bewildered. He ushered me in. "I will."

"I will be back soon," she said again. She paused. "And if I am not, do not go to the rehearsal tonight. Do not leave this apartment." And she was gone.

Raoul took me to the couch. He attempted to question me a bit, gain some information as to what was going on. But until my mother returned, I was unable to speak. I merely sat there, trying not to cry. Raoul eventually sat in silence with me.

Ten minutes turned into thirty. Thirty minutes turned into an hour.

An hour turned into two, and she didn't return.

Two hours turned into three, and Janelle asked if I wanted dinner. My mother hadn't returned.

Three hours turned into four. Five. Six. Seven.

Raoul offered to let me sleep in his bed, offered to replace the sheets for me, while he slept on the couch.

I'd burst into tears, shaking my head, refusing to move from where I sat.

Midnight approached.

And my mother didn't return.


	28. Christine

Erik and I were friends. Or, at least, we were becoming friends.

Our relationship was easy. Comfortable. If not, of course, unorthodox - but I didn't dislike it at all. The Wednesday after Hannibal, he cut our lesson about ten minutes short and asked if I simply wanted to drink a cup of coffee with him, sitting with him on one of his couches.

He waited for my answer, looking up at me from where he sat at the piano. I smiled back at him. "That sounds lovely, actually."

But this small gesture of kindness, of kinship, brought about a pang of extreme guilt. I waited by the piano for a few moments, then moved to couch, wondering after my own odd emotions.

It was only when he returned with the cups and handed one to me, sitting next to me, that I realized why I felt so badly.

He'd been genuine with me from the start - honest. His intentions had only ever been to befriend me.

And I'd taken advantage of it to prove that he was a killer. Which, it seemed, he was not.

Yes, I now felt genuinely warm toward him. But we'd only gotten to this point because I'd meant to deceive him.

I sipped at my coffee.

"I hope it's sufficiently sweet enough."

I nodded. "It is." I looked at him. He was watching me. "How did you know I like coffee sweet?"

"I guessed. I personally take it black. Bitter."

I smirked. "Then why carry sugar and cream at all?"

He held my gaze. "I had Jules recently purchase those items just in case you cared for them."

My stomach twisted in agony. I had to push away my feelings of regret. He would never know I meant to deceive him. I never had to tell him - and I was the only one with that knowledge, so there was no way for him to find out from anyone else. I was fine. No need to fret.

Still.

I sighed, and took another sip of the, honestly, perfect coffee.

"Something seems to be troubling you."

"No, nothing." I smiled, looking down. "Only thinking of Isabelle," I lied, "and how it is affecting Meg." Although, I suppose this wasn't entirely a lie. Her death did often sit at the back of my mind, tucked away but never exactly out of sight.

He considered this beside me. "You and she are very close."

"Like sisters."

He paused. "At least the killer is caught."

"Madame doesn't think so," I said, turning my attention to him again. "She believes a killer is still on the loose."

A flash of worry crossed his eyes. "I sincerely hope not." His hands seemed to tighten exponentially around his cup. "If that is the case, then don't leave the side of anyone you trust."

I gave a little laugh. "Nervous for me?"

"I'd rather not lose you." His lower lip thinned. "I do...appreciate your company."

Living like he did, alone in the dark, of course he did. Besides Jules who appeared frightened of him, besides Madame who'd only ever heard his voice, I was his only companion - other than Ayesha, of course.

My guilt grew. It spread from my stomach, to my chest, to my throat, forcing me to speak.

"Erik," I said.

"Yes, Christine."

"I need to admit something to you."

At my sudden vulnerability, his pupils seemed to dilate, and he put his cup on his coffee table. He turned more fully toward me. "Yes?"

"I..." I felt a bit hazy, but he deserved the dignity of the truth. "When I begged you in my letter for friendship?"

He paused. "Yes."

"It wasn't...entirely because I was lonely. Though-" I added hastily, "it had been a factor."

His eyes narrowed, and I willed my heart to slow.

"Erik, I initially suspected that you were the killer," I said. "And I wanted to get close to you in order to find out the truth. But when St. Juste was caught, I realized that I still wanted to get to know you, find out more about you. So I investigated the dressing room...made Jules take me here. My wanting to visit you, have lessons here, that was and is genuine. But I hadn't initially been honest."

He didn't say anything. I stared into my cup. There. It was said. And a good thing I said it now - it was still early enough in our friendship that, should he wish to cut ties with me over this, it wouldn't sting as harshly as if I'd revealed it to him later. And now the guilt wouldn't boil my insides.

I felt him chill beside me.

Well, there it was.

Goodbye to singing lessons.

I expected him to tell me how horrible I was - I'd lied to everyone, apparently. I expected him to become stone, to escort me wordlessly to the surface.

"That," he said lowly, "is the most idiotic thing I've ever heard in my forty years of life."

My cheeks heated and I whipped my gaze to his. There was a soft fury there.

I bit my lip. "I-"

"What if I had been the killer, Christine?"

I blinked. "Then-"

"Then you would likely be dead. You...suspected me of murder, and still wrote letters to me, met with me, went to my home!- Luckily, I am not the murderer, but why in God's name would you pursue someone you suspect of brutal mutilation of other women?" He paused, looking at me strangely. "Ah - now the former sweetness makes sense."

I looked down, wanting to bite back but knowing this was deserved.

"You made yourself look helpless and silly. You assumed that these were the qualities a violent man would find enticing - naïve and weak girls are easier to trap and kill. And you wanted to ensnare yourself in my spiderweb, hoping to strike me before I could do the same to you. Is that it?"

My throat was dry, but I lifted my chin. "Yes."

I heard him sigh. "Never, Christine, ever do something so reckless again. I'd thought you were more intelligent than that."

I clamped down on the bubbling shame.

"Of course, I don't blame you for suspecting me. That, I do understand. Of course you would - a reclusive voice in the night, unseen and rarely heard. Why would I have expected you would think anything less?"

I brought my eyes to his. There was a bit of pain there. "Erik, I-"

"I mean it. I would have suspected myself too. And, to be truthful, I have killed before."

I felt a blast of ice pass through my chest. I stared at him.

"It was when I was very young. A necessity, to stay alive. I've not killed since - but that matters little. Not when I look like I do. Not when I live where I live. Keep the mask on, and people are uneasy. Take it off, and I am branded a monster. Live aboveground, and I am chased from every space I claim; live belowground, and I am transformed into a ghost. Damned either way, it seems."

My coffee, though sweet, tasted bitter. I cleared my throat. "You have to understand-"

"I do understand. Perfectly. And I mean no sarcasm in that - I can genuinely say that your perception of me had been a logical one. The fact that the killer was caught is only mere luck - it's only because of a stroke of fortune that this perception was challenged, only because of your obvious curiosity that you continued wanting to know me. I understand."

And that only made me feel worse. Of course it did.

"Come," he said then, "it's time to return you to the surface." He stood and offered me his hand, but didn't look at me.

I put my coffee on the table and took his gloved fingers. "Will I return tomorrow?"

He didn't respond right away. Once I was standing, he let go of my hand. He began walking toward the foyer, and I followed behind, feeling like my heart was sinking deep into my core.

Finally, he said, weariness in the tone, "Yes, Christine."

\- - - - - - - - - -

Again, the walk from the theatre to Jules's apartment was silent. But it wasn't because Jules didn't want to talk. He still didn't, of course, but it was now because I was feeling quite wretched. I'd lied to both men. And I was still lying to Madame about my whereabouts. To Meg.

Clouds had rolled to cover the sky, and by the time we made it to his apartment, it was quite dreary. He unlocked his door, and like clockwork, he went to his armchair to read, while I met Annette Bernard in the kitchen for tea.

"Oh, Christine! You and Jules are back." She smiled gaily at me, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron. "I hope you like financiers."

"You're baking." I walked in to investigate. Indeed, I spotted the oven on and smelled the vague scent of almond.

"Oh, I love baking! Do you ever bake?"

"Not much. I also don't cook much either, though I suppose I ought to learn. The Girys do most of the cooking."

"Ah, yes. Cooking isn't a passion of mine, but there's something about making pastries - I suppose it's a bit like painting with food. Come. Let's sit. I have the tea ready now, and the financiers should be finished within the next ten minutes. If Madame Giry is here by then, perhaps she would like one, as well!"

Jules, then, popped his head into the kitchen. "Did you say financiers?"

"I did, love."

He smiled. "Please let me know, too, when they are done."

"Of course."

Jules went back to his chair, and Annette and I sat at the small kitchen table. She poured us both tea, and as ever, she asked what I'd learned. I told her, as best I could, what Erik had told me. And as she always did, she attempted to emulate what I passed on to her. Head high. Sing from the core, not the throat or even chest. Breathe into the diaphragm. She sang, right there in that seat.

Quite badly. But I kept my mouth shut. I doubted I sounded much better.

The financiers finished. Jules came in to collect his, followed by three of their children. They slunk off with their pastries back to the rest of the house. Annette and I collected ours as well and ate them with our tea.

And we talked, moving from the topic of my lessons to painting - her own passion. Upon finishing the pastries and tea, she asked me if I wanted to see some of the paintings I hadn't yet had the pleasure of looking at.

"Of course, Madame."

She smiled and led me to her painting room. She showed me works that depicted flowers, domestic scenes, foods, and city life. I looked closely at each, genuinely amazed at the detail of each.

And when we went back to the kitchen, when I looked at the clock on the wall, I started.

Oh. Madame was late. By half an hour. This was especially troubling because she was normally extremely prompt.

I put the thought aside. Any manner of thing could be holding her up.

But when it turned into an hour, and then two, Jules asked me if I wanted him to escort me home himself. I frowned and nodded. I would need to eat something quick - something more than just pastries - if I was to go to rehearsal in a couple of hours.

I wondered what was keeping Madame.

Outside, the clouds had darkened the sky exponentially despite the afternoon hour, and again the walk was silent. I had quickened my pace, becoming more worried with every step. Jules had to move his feet with more vigor to keep up.

At last at my apartment, I put the key in the lock. Jules cleared his throat behind me. "May I go, Mademoiselle Daae?"

I turned to him, wanting to tell him that I didn't need to dismiss him. "Yes, Jules. Thank you for taking me home."

And he did go. I went inside.

"Madame?" I called. "Meg?" No one responded.

Perhaps they were shopping. Strange of Madame to forget where I was.

The thought didn't slow my heart, though. I merely took a deep breath and went to the kitchen area and-

A sheet of paper on the table caught my eye. I saw Madame's handwriting, and let out of breath of relief. Good. She was letting me know where she was.

I read:

\-----

Christine-

The killer remains free.

If you are reading this, it means I did not make it to you in time to warn you.

Do not stay here. It is not safe.

Meg is protected. I cannot write her location.

Go back to where you were, and don't come back here unless I retrieve you.

Do not, under any circumstances, go to rehearsal.

\-----

My ears roared.

And as I hadn't turned on any lights - merely reading the note with what little light was shining through the windows - I was suddenly quite frightened to turn around.

I wasn't safe here. She wanted me to leave and not come back.

I didn't want to look up. I didn't want to move. I had the vague feeling of...something. Something being in the apartment with me. Though there was no movement, no sound. Only my heavy breathing.

The Christine who'd been so brave in tracking down Erik - that Christine was not here. Because now there was a real threat. A threat that had the upper hand, for I was completely caught off guard. And a mysterious threat at that, for Madame to be so vague, so hasty. For her and Meg to have fled.

I forced myself to get my bearings. To remember the Christine who'd been ready to let fists fly with a murderer in the dressing room, in the dark hallways behind the mirror.

I took a deep shuddering breath, counted to three, and bolted for the door, taking the note with me.

Go back to where you were, she'd instructed.

I ran after Jules as fast as my feet could carry me.


	29. Raoul

Meg refused to eat. Janelle and I barely managed to get her to drink some tea. A single cup of tea, before she finally relented around three in the morning. She finally said that, yes, she should like to go to sleep.

Less, I suspect, because she was tired. Moreso because she wanted to be alone, in the dark, in the quiet. To ease whatever panic was had successfully crept in, grabbed hold of her heart and mind.

I knew that feeling well.

So, with Janelle long gone from my apartment, back to her own family, I changed the sheets on the bed. I made the space as enticing-looking as I could, lit a candle - something that always calmed me - and let her know that she could go in whenever she wanted.

I also laid out a set of my own sleep clothes for her to wear. I had no idea if she'd take advantage of that, but I doubted her current dress would make for a good nightgown.

She thanked me, head down, and went to my bedroom. She closed the door, the lock sounding. Barely audible. I paid it no mind. It sounded as though she didn't want me to know she was locking the door. But why would I have protested? We'd only met one another three times or four times - of course she'd lock the door.

I'd already laid out my own blankets on the couch. In another set of my sleep clothes, I went under the covers and stared at the ceiling.

It was only then that it hit me how incredibly odd this situation was.

I'd know that one of the ballet girls was killed. But now...now it seemed that it hadn't been an isolated incident, if Madame Giry's cryptic words were to be believed. And Madame Giry had gone to take care of the situation. But had not returned.

Which meant something could have happened to her.

Which meant, possibly, that Meg was in even more danger now too.

I sat straight up, staring into the darkness, hearing the soft ticking of the clock that was rapidly approaching four in the morning.

Unless Meg had told many, many people where I lived, then...she was safe. Hidden well. No one would know where she was, if they were looking for her. And even if she had shouted to the world who she'd been seeing, then it wouldn't matter anyway. I'd given her a false name.

I closed my eyes. A good thing I had, then.

I laid back down, clenching my fists. Well, then. Until Madame Giry came to collect her - if she ever did, I amended mentally, heart pounding at the thought's implication - Meg was my responsibility. I was in charge of making sure that she was safe. That was that.

Tomorrow, should she not arrive by noon, I would have Janelle go out to purchase a few sets of women's clothes and undergarments. Toiletry supplies as well. Books, too, that might interest a young woman - if she liked to read. I wasn't sure. I'd have to ask her.

I wondered what Philippe would say.

Oh, God, what would Philippe say?

I gave a small huff, deciding that my brother could kiss my ass. He'd done far more questionable things when it came to people of the female persuasion. Hosting a girl in my apartment was hardly worth mentioning in comparison. 

\- - - - - - - - - -

I awoke to the sound of an insistent knock on my front door.

I groaned, eyes still closed. I heard no footsteps in the apartment, so Janelle was likely shopping. I'd have to get the door myself.

I'd managed somehow to flip onto my stomach with one arm behind my head, the limb utterly numb. The blanket had slid to the floor, and there was a distinct puddle of drool on the pillow.

Oh, I was lucky Meg had not come out. And if she had, I was lucky I was too unconscious to see her reaction.

Another knock, and I realized: that could be Madame Giry.

I scrambled to my feet, placing the blanket back on the couch. "One moment!"

"It's us, Raoul!"

The twins.

I groaned a second time. God, not while Meg was here...

Yet unable to change into my day clothes, currently tucked away in the bedroom Meg was still occupying, I'd simply have to answer the door in what I was currently wearing. Wearing sleep trousers, a shirt, and no shoes, I went to the front door, and opened it just wide enough for them to see my face.

Both of them immediately grinned.

"Raoul," said Julien. "I did not think you were one to sleep in. It's nearly noon."

"Julien," I said, "Albert. Now is not a good time."

They looked between themselves. "Everything all right?" asked Albert.

"Raoul?" Meg's voice from somewhere behind me. I cringed - even before I saw the absolute look of shocked delight on their faces.

"Hmm..." said Julien, eyes sparkling. "Not a good time indeed."

"Is my mother here?" her voice called.

"No, dear!" called Albert, grinning. "And we won't tell her - your father, either!"

"Can't wait to tell Philippe, though." Julien was staring at me in a way that made me want to push him off a high balcony. I scowled, though I knew he'd never tattle.

Upon hearing two foreign male voices, she gave a small shriek and I heard the door close again.

"Well, well," mused Albert. "Tongue-tied Raoul managed to win the heart of a woman...and lure her into his bed, no less."

"She - I wasn't-" Tongue-tied indeed.

"We can see you're still dressed for bed," Julien pointed out, roving his blue eyes up and down my form, while I shifted slightly in response. "You're not really going to stand here and tell us that she's in her best while you remained in your sleep clothes."

"She's not here for the reason you are thinking," I said softly, gritting the words out.

"I think thou doth protest too much," he responded, raising an eyebrow.

"Where is her chaperone, then?" asked Albert. "Is it her mother? Father? An uncle, perhaps? Who is this person so unconcerned with your choice of clothing for...what is it, late breakfast? Lunch? What did you have to eat, Raoul?"

"I know what he had to eat," said his brother.

A pause, then both twins sniggered.

I flushed quite red - I could feel the heat in my face.

"It's a bad time," I said again through my teeth. "Come back again in a few days."

"A few days!" hooted Albert.

"My, Raoul - such stamina!" Julien bellowed.

They both burst out laughing - hard this time - and I at last closed the door in their faces.

Their laughter only intensified.


	30. Christine

No one followed.

Of course, I didn't once turn around to check. But despite the lack of hands grabbing at me from behind, the hairs at the nape of my neck were standing up straight, and I felt fear like a steam locomotive pulling its whistle, making me move faster and faster - moving in the direction of where I knew Jules had headed. People stared at me as I ran past, breathing hard, but I didn't dare turn around. Who could have known that the middle of the day could bring such fear?

I saw him, then, turning a corner, hands in his pocket, head down.

I didn't care who heard or saw. "Jules!"

He didn't hear me. I picked up the speed a bit and rounded the corner as well. He was closer now. "Monsieur Bernard! Jules!"

Jules heard me that time. People stopped to watch he spun around, stiff-backed and round-eyed with surprise. He blinked, looked around us as I slowed to a stop, and he came to me rapidly. Barely inches between us, he pulled my arm so that we were both facing the wall, a man used to keeping secrets and having secret conversations.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

I showed him the note. He read it, brows knitting as he did so. He then paused for a moment or two, then looked at me. "Were you followed?"

"I don't know. I...don't think so." I paused. "No." But I knew my voice was laced with uncertainty.

His lips thinned. "Right." He took a deep breath and pocketed the note. "Let's take a stroll around Paris."

Jules let go of me and instead held out his own arm. He looked at me pleasantly, different to how he'd ever regarded me before. Mildly bewildered, I didn't argue. I took his elbow.

"Are we not-"

"Shh." He continued smiling and began to walk. I fell into step beside him. "How was your breakfast?"

I stared at him. We continued down the street, as I noticed his eyes darting all around with a large degree of subtlety. To anyone else, it might appear as though he were merely taking in his surroundings, but the stiff gait, the hard lines on his face - I knew he was looking around him, looking for something. Or someone.

"My breakfast?" I whispered.

"Your breakfast." His voice was tight. "Yes."

"It was fine."

"Good." He paused, and then his voice was low. "Now, Christine, if we must chat, I will ask that we keep it to this kind of small talk. If not, then we should wait until we are indoors. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good." His voice went even lower. "We are going to walk around for a bit. If you happen to notice anyone trailing behind, alert me immediately."

I nodded and began looking around me immediately. No one, now, seemed to be looking at us.

"We cannot go back to my apartment until I know we are safe from danger. A few random turns in Paris should prove whether we have something to worry about." His voice returned to normal. "I had eggs and toast for breakfast. Annette makes eggs in the most heavenly fashion."

I smiled, knowing it didn't reach my eyes. "That's good to hear. My breakfast consisted of crepes - one of the only things I actually know how to cook." I forced a laugh.

He returned the sound, still examining his surroundings.

We turned a corner a time or two, at one point entering through a small empty alley to emerge in the street on the other side. No one had tailed us. The faces all around were each new, each disinterested. I started to relax, and so, it seemed, did Jules. Perhaps it had merely been paranoia back at home, alone in the dark.

"All right." His tension in his shoulders had loosened. "I think that will do."

I didn't say anything as he led me along, and I realized just how far we'd travelled. Perhaps twenty minutes later, I recognized my surroundings, and ten minutes after that, we were at his home.

He rushed to the door, letting go of my arm. He ushered me up the stairs until we were at his door, and he hastily put the key in the lock, opened it, and allowed me inside.

"Jules!" called Annette from the kitchen. "I want to make chicken for dinner. Do you want- Oh!" She appeared in the archway as Jules locked the door behind him. Her smile was warm, if not surprised, when she spotted me. "Christine, dear. I thought you were going home."

"I was," I responded, "but-"

"But she forgot that Madame Giry and Meg were out of town to visit close family," he responded quickly, putting up his hat. "And I forgot that I'd invited her to stay while they were gone. Poor dear is frightened of being alone." He chuckled and patted my shoulder. His touch there was harsher than necessary, colder.

I blinked. All right. A...plausible story, I suppose.

I forced a grin as well. "Oh...yes. I hate the quietness of an empty apartment. It simply fills me with terror." Not a lie. Not today, at least.

"Oh." Annette looked at me strangely, then at her husband. "Why did you not tell me?"

"Slipped my mind, darling. I apologize." He moved away from me, toward his wife, and kissed her sweetly on the cheek. "Really. I've just had so much on my mind. Here - I will help tonight in the kitchen. Make it up to you."

Annette laughed, though the pause didn't leave her eyes. "That's very sweet, dear, but - really, where will she sleep? On the couch? We have no free beds."

"I don't mind." I gave her an appreciative nod. "The hospitality is comfort enough."

She pursed her lips, then nodded. "All right. Well, I suppose. I still don't understand how you'd-" A look at Jules. "-forget to inform me. But I won't leave Christine to suffer in fright. I will set you up with pillows and a blanket on the couch. Really, I'd put you in one of my children's beds, but they're far too small." She seemed, then, to really notice me. "Where is your bag?"

I started. "My bag?"

"Your clothes. To stay?"

A short silence, then Jules laughed, hitting his own forehead. "Oh - dear me! I can't believe we forgot your bags, Christine! Well, we will simply have to go and get them - well, it, really. You are only staying the one night, isn't that right?"

I was? Where would I go after that?

But I nodded anyway. "Right. Yes."

"Then let's be off."

He again unlocked the door, and I left first. He called, "Be back soon, love! And chicken sounds lovely!" before closing the door once more, locking it.

Jules went ahead of me, taking to the stairs. I did the same.

"We are going back to my apartment?" I whispered.

"Of course not. Don't be silly." He glanced back only to look at me like I was ridiculous. I narrowed my eyes in response. He'd seemed to be my ally when I ran after him, offering him my arm and smiling - though it had obviously been an act, it had relieved some tension between us. That bit of friendliness was gone, to be replaced with the familiar chilly animosity. "We are going to purchase you entirely new clothes - at least to last you tonight and tomorrow."

"And...then I'm going back?"

He sighed. "No, Christine, I am not sending you back there alone - not if there is a killer. Which." He turned to me then, still on the stairs. I nearly bumped into him. "You have yet to explain."

"You know as much as I, Jules." I crossed my arms. "We both know that Isabelle was killed. Well, now Madame Giry is claiming that there's another killer - she seems to know something about it, doesn't she? If she left that note? And," I added, and swallowed, "it likely also means that she's in danger herself."

I forced the idea out of my mind. Not Madame. She was fine. Madame could handle herself. And Meg was safe - she'd said as much. They were all right. Had to be all right.

Jules merely stared at me, then slowly nodded. He faced forward and led me down the stairs again.

"Where will I go, then?" I asked him, holding onto the railing. "If not back to your house, then where?"

"Erik."

I blinked. "Erik?" After today, I wasn't sure he wanted to see me so soon.

"Yes. I'd take you before dark tonight were it not for rehearsal - which Madame Giry explicitly expressed you not go near. But yes. Erik. You are not my responsibility."

I felt the comment like a slap. It turned my words sharp. "And I'm Erik's?"

"More his than mine."

"I'm no one's responsibility."

He laughed shortly, throwing his head back a bit, the sound infuriating me. "Then you shouldn't mind going back to your apartment at all, should you?"

I stopped. "Is there something you'd like to say to me, Jules?"

He stopped too, but didn't turn. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Are you still cross with me for lying to you?"

He finally whirled. "And why would that make me cross, Christine?" He took a step up. "Is it because I am working for a man that prizes his secrecy above anything, and you coerced me into breaking his trust?" Another step up. "Is it because I have a full family to feed, so losing my position working for him would certainly lead to poverty? - we both know that production assistants don't exactly bring in riches." A third step up, and he was a breath's distance away, anger blazing in his eyes. "Or is it because I can see that you're a manipulative little rat who is toying with him for...what is it, Christine? Exposing him? Studying him like a freak in a carnival? Harming him? What is it? Do tell - I'm dying to know. Because why else would you want to visit him - visit him! Like he's an ordinary man in an ordinary house." He tapped his own temple. "I'm not stupid, Christine."

My mouth went dry. "I'm not...I don't-"

"Actually-" He waved me away, turning again. "Don't waste your breath." He continued down the steps. "I can't believe I thought you genuine when I first met you in the hallway behind the mirror - what had I been thinking?" He let out a puff of air and made his voice whiny, pleading. "'Bless you, Mademoiselle'." He scoffed. "Lord." We reached the door to the building. He held it open for me. He continued speaking as I passed. "I'll request he take you tomorrow because, unfortunately, it's the safest place for you to be - for your sake as well as my family's. But mark my words - you ruin my career for me...hurt him enough that he somehow decides to fire me...expose him so that he is forced to terminate my position...I will-"

"You'll what?" I spun to face him. "I'm not...using him." Not anymore, I wanted to add, but wasn't an enough of an idiot to. "But say that you were correct. You'll do what in retribution, exactly?"

His nostrils flared. And with no small satisfaction, I saw that he had no answer.

He continued on. "Come." His voice was clipped. "There's a shop near here."

We did buy clothes. A bag. We returned by dinner, and of course I ate with them. Annette talked to me, to Jules, to the children (all of which were lovely and quite thrilled to have a guest). I was set up on the couch, left alone to sleep till morning. And I awoke to the sound of eggs frying.

Around mid-morning, Jules announced that he was going to the theatre to take care of some business.

He gave me a short, knowing look. There was little warmth there.


	31. Erik

I wasn't surprised.

I was merely...disappointed.

Yes.

Disappointed. Sorely, painfully disappointed.

If not a fair bit embarrassed.

At first, I'd felt anger. Anger that she'd deceived me. Anger that she'd put herself in harm's way intentionally. But then I deflated. Deflated with defeat. Resignation.

Of course, I'd realized. Of course it hadn't been real. Of course there had been other motives at play. Of course she hadn't truly meant to befriend me - why on Earth would she?

But she'd confessed it. She wouldn't have done so if her feelings hadn't changed. She let me know because her intentions had switched course.

Still. It didn't sting any less.

She wanted to come back. And though this warmed me some, I felt that I would have liked some time alone. To process.

But even now, I could deny her nothing. Knowing what I knew, I still felt I'd move oceans for this girl that, really, I barely knew.

Was that love?

Or was that pathetic desperation?

How the devil should I know? I'd never experienced the former. I had nothing to base this on.

Ayesha jumped onto the arm of my chair, taking me from my thoughts and back to my surroundings. I was in my parlor looking into a rapidly cooling cup of coffee. I thinned my lips and sighed through my nostrils, feeling as though I wanted to think longer, harder, but also glad that she was interrupting me. Thinking, I supposed, was not always the answer.

I brought up my right hand to stroke her under the chin with my index finger. She lifted her head and closed her eyes, purring contentedly. "Good girl," I told her.

The bell rang.

I stood to meet Jules. Here, no doubt, to collect my shopping list. I'd made it last night after Christine left, and placed it on the dining table. I grabbed it on my way to the door, pocketing it, before putting on my hat and making my way for the lake.

I crossed the water quickly, quietly, and found Jules on the other side. I docked and exited, as he held up his lantern to see me.

"Sir," he said. "I'm here."

"I'm ugly, Jules, not blind. I can see you." I fished into my pocket and produced the list. "Here. Though, you could have collected it when you brought Christine later today. No need to make the journey twice."

He nodded, throat bobbing, and took the paper. He didn't even glance down to look at it. "Sir, something has happened."

I took in his words, then went rigid at his uneasy tone. "Something?" Silence. "Care to...elaborate, Monsieur Bernard?"

He opened his mouth shortly, then closed it. Then opened it again to say, "Christine."

I inhaled slowly. My blood turned to ice. "What about Christine?"

"She is likely in danger." He gave a little start, as though he'd just remembered something important. He went into his pants pocket and pulled out another sheet of paper, handing it to me. "She found this in her apartment, from Madame Giry."

I read the note.

And my icy blood turned hot, burning. I looked at him with wide eyes, gripping the note with white fingers beneath black gloves. "Where is Christine?"

"In my home."

Some fire was put out. "And Madame Giry?"

"I don't know. She hasn't come to collect Christine."

God. Dear Lord.

Was there a killer right under my nonexistent nose?

I was the Opera Ghost. I was supposed to know everything that happened in this theatre. And yet...somehow. Somehow some madman was picking off girls and women one by one.

And if I was quite honest, I think I suspected who. A shame I had never dealt with him sooner.

"Bring Christine to me," I said. "I want her here. Safe."

Jules nodded, though he stared at me with strange, calculating eyes.

I raised a brow beneath the mask. "Is there a problem?"

"No, sir," he said quickly. "It's just..."

"Just what?"

"I agree that you should take her...of course I agree, sir." He shifted. "But I...advise you, if you care for or value my advice, to be...careful."

"Careful, Jules?"

"Yes, sir."

"Of?"

He paused, then sighed. "Christine."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Christine?"

"Yes, sir."

"And why is that?"

He'd paled a bit. "I...don't...trust her intentions."

I stared at him, wanting suddenly to laugh. The irony was nowhere near lost on me. "Suspect her of deceiving me, Jules?"

"Yes."

"Of pretending to be interested in my company?"

"Yes, sir." His voice had gone low.

"Of digging deeper to...perhaps, accuse me? Expose me of some wrongdoing?"

"Yes, sir, but please know that I-"

"You are, or were, absolutely correct. She confessed it to me yesterday."

He stared at me, nothing but shock and confusion in his gaze. "Then-"

"Bring her here, Jules. Be prompt, if you please."

The man looked at me with great concern and bewilderment. "Sir, she told you that she was lying to you?"

"Yes, Jules."

"And you still...want her to come."

"Yes." Did he think that pitiful? Was it pitiful? Yes, likely, but...ah well.

"What if she means to harm you, sir?" He'd stepped closer. "What if she continues to lie to you, and her telling you was a further tactic to...to, perhaps, win your trust? Somehow...Sir, I don't..."

He trailed off, and I merely smiled ruefully at him. "If she means to harm me, then it's a good thing I sleep in a coffin, isn't it?"

His mouth fell open very slightly, and then he looked away.

"Now," I said again, "do go and fetch her. Quickly, before rehearsal starts." I paused. "Inform me if Madame Giry comes looking for her."

"Where should I say Christine has gone if she does come?"

"Say she went walking," I said. "To the shops. I don't know - you're smart. You can think of something. But it's best that she's away from your family, to where she could attract unwanted company. And it's best she is hidden away in a place no one would think to look for her. For her own safekeeping. Don't you agree?"

Jules nodded soundlessly. He bid me goodbye and turned with his lantern, making his way to the surface. I went back to my house-

Rapidly realizing that I was intending to host Christine in my home for more than an hour or two. And if Madame didn't come looking for her today, then she'd be staying overnight.

Possibly longer.

The thought filled me with dread. And yet I couldn't think of a sweeter idea.


	32. Raoul

The moment I closed the door in the twins' faces, I immediately regretted it.

I knew that, despite their jests, they wouldn't say a word about the girl currently residing in my apartment. I knew they'd merely laugh amongst themselves, but would otherwise shut their traps should someone walk by.

Still, the idea of having them assume such...things of Meg. It felt disgusting.

They were still guffawing outside my apartment when I opened it again, fully and wide. Their laughter turned to sniggering as I stepped outside, still barefoot, and closed the door behind me.

"Listen," I implored them. Their eyes only glistened. "She is not...I am not doing...with her...what you think I am."

"And what exactly are you doing, Raoul?" asked Albert, grinning wolfishly. "Do enlighten us."

"She's in danger."

Their smiles faded, disappearing like the sun in a dusk sky. The light in their eyes darkened as well. "Oh?" said Julien.

"Yes. Her mother...brought her here. And hasn't returned."

Just then, Janelle - and I hadn't noticed her walking down the street - returned with a basket of groceries. She asked the twins to excuse her as she moved past them, and then eyed me critically, her stare moving up and down my half-dressed form for all of Paris to see.

"Monsieur de Chagny," she said. "Hope you don't mind my asking, but have you forgotten the location of your day clothes?"

The twins snorted and hissed with amusement behind her, and the corner of Janelle's lip tugged upward.

My face was red again. "No. I remember where they are."

"Right, sir. Well, lunch will be ready in an hour. Is Mademoiselle Giry still here?"

I nodded.

She sighed, eyes tinged with worry. "Right. I will make enough for company, then."

She went inside.

When I looked at the twins, they were staring at one another with shock.

"What?" I asked.

"Giry?" asked Albert, finally looking at me. "Meg Giry? The ballerina you were admiring."

"Yes."

"Her mother is the one who hasn't returned?"

I nodded.

"So...Madame Giry. The dance instructor at the Opera." Albert was frowning. "There was a bit of panic last night when three more women were missing. We heard so when we went drinking with some theatre folk last night - Meg, Madame Giry, and another ballet girl never showed up to rehearsal."

"And after the death of the first ballet girl, and the fact that the alto is still unaccounted for..." added Julien.

"At least Meg is safe, I suppose," said Albert softly.

I nodded. "But - you cannot say a word. The killer...it could be anyone. So I have to keep Meg's location here a secret. Do you understand?"

The twins stared at me a few moments, then both nodded solemnly.

"We can do a little digging ourselves," said Albert.

"Yes," Julien agreed, "we have connections everywhere."

"We can likely find out something about the culprit."

"Yes, something."

"Anything."

"Anything could help."

"Even the smallest detail." Albert gave a soft smile. "The tiniest fragment of information could be the missing piece needed to find the answer."

I glanced between them, thinking. And then sighed and said, "Fine, but you must not-" I closed my mouth as an elderly couple walked past. They stared at me. I gave them a polite nod, but they weren't looking at my face. They were looking at my clothes, my bare feet. They shared a look and moved a bit faster, whispering. The twins had regained some of their mirth at that, but stayed wisely quiet. "You must not say a single word," I said, much lower now. "You must - absolutely must - not reveal what you know of her location."

"Of course."

"Understood."

I turned to move back inside, but then remembered: "Oh! And should you and Meg ever speak, she knows me as Raoul Deleon. Not de Chagny."


	33. Christine

I held a basket of groceries in one hand and Erik's gloved hand in the other. Jules had provided the groceries. He'd bought them before coming back to his apartment to fetch me, and then took the food and me to the Opera House, to the dressing room. To Erik.

The Ghost would be my caretaker for the time being.

And though I'd said I was not his responsibility, not anyone's responsibility, I couldn't help but feel relieved. I didn't want to be in my own home. And being in Jules's home was far too awkward. So at the moment, Erik's underground house was the safest, most comfortable place to be.

We walked in silence. As we did, I could think of nothing but his muted anger yesterday. His...sadness. It had been sadness, I think.

I was a terrible, horrible person.

He cleared his throat, the sound echoing softly against the stone walls of the hallway. "Jules will bring you clothing this afternoon. A few days' worth, and then I can possibly purchase more, depending."

I nodded. He couldn't see the gesture, so I then responded. "All right." I paused, and added: "Thank you."

"You're welcome," came his soft reply. Another bit of silence. "I have a spare bedroom."

"Oh. Good."

"Yes."

I frowned. Things had started to become so easy between us, and now...

We arrived at the boat. I got in wordlessly, and he moved us across the lake to his house. Once inside, he told me where the kitchen was. Ayesha was currently meowing in the archway leading into the room, but I stepped around her - not before she batted at my legs moving past.

"Ayesha!" Erik scolded. She didn't seem affected by that. In fact, she only followed me and jumped onto the counter where I placed the basket.

"She's likely hungry," he said, in the archway. I looked back at him. "I will feed her in a little while - and you, if you are so inclined to eat lunch."

I shook my head. I wasn't hungry at all, though I hadn't eaten breakfast.

He nodded, looking down. "All right. Well." He sighed. "I have books in the parlor, if you'd care to read them. I will be...working in my study, I suppose."

"All right," I whispered.

He nodded again, eyes distant and pointed at the floor. His hands were on either side of the archway. A few seconds, then he turned.

"Erik?" I blurted.

He whirled. "Yes."

"I-" I pressed my lips together. "I am sorry."

He stared at me.

"For...deceiving you. It wasn't right. But...I really do like your company. I really do find you interesting. I...do want to get to know you. I always wanted to get to know you, even before I-" I sighed. "I want to be friends, like we were."

"Were we?" It wasn't a mocking question - it was genuine.

"Yes." I nodded. "I stopped suspecting you a while ago, like I said. I still wanted to meet you. I liked our lessons - still like them. I like coming here."

"If you say so, my dear." He gave a very tight smile. "I appreciate the kind words."

He turned and left.

Deflated, I picked up an apple from the basket - just in case my appetite returned - and went to the parlor. I picked up a book and read.

I listened, perhaps a half an hour later, to the sound of him cooing at Ayesha, feeling a bit jealous of his affection toward her. I focused all the harder on the book.

An hour after that, my stomach complained. I bit into the apple.

And though I read the book, my mind was really elsewhere. And not just because I was fretting over Erik's perception of me - but because I had no idea where Madame was. Where Meg was.

I hoped against all odds that they were safe. That they were, perhaps, together. And that I might be reunited with them both.

Another hour and I heard a bell ringing. Erik informed me from somewhere else in the house that it was Jules, and that he'd be back. I called back that I understood.

He did return shortly, with a bag of clothes and toiletries. He told me he would put the items in the room I'd sleep in. I nodded and thanked him.

Two more hours, and I'd finished the book. The apple's ability to satiate me had worn off, and I was again quite hungry.

This was good, because he informed me that he was cooking dinner. Veal. Vegetables. I said that that sounded wonderful.

The food was delicious. The table-talk, however, was nonexistent. He merely asked me if I was comfortable so far. I said of course.

And that was that.

By the end of the dinner, I couldn't take it anymore.

"Erik," I said, as he collected the dishes, "I want to go back to normal."

He stared at me. "We can, Christine."

"But we aren't."

His lower lip thinned, eyes searching mine. "What, exactly, would you like me to do?"

I didn't know.

But I wanted to feel like he, not I, was comfortable. I wanted to feel warmth around him, not this coolness. I wanted him to-

"Sing to me," I suggested. "Please. You only did it the one time, when we first spoke through the mirror. Can you sing to me again?"

A tired look entered his eyes, but he nodded. "Let me clean these-"

"Let me." I stood, and gave him a smile. "I can do it. You merely - go prepare. However you need to. I will see you in the parlor."

He looked at me, then at the dishes. He relented. "Yes. All right."

I made off with the dishes. I cleaned them in the kitchen as fast as I could. And then I met him in the parlor.

He was already sitting at the piano, leafing through various scores. I sat on one of the couches. "All right," I said, "I'm ready."

A ghost of a smile was at his lips. "Prepare to swoon, then."

I didn't laugh, but relief made my shoulders relax. There. There he was. Good.

He sang. And again that astonishment, that rapture, went through me. Everything melted away except that beautiful voice of his - the voice that didn't belong to his body. Since the night I'd first spoken to him, it had only been me singing. Him teaching me. But this, I think, I preferred.

He finished the song soon after, and I smiled brightly. "Thank you."

Erik gave a short bow of his head. Then he looked toward the grandfather clock. "Might I show you to your bedroom, then? I want to work in my study again, Christine."

My smile went away, but I folded my hands in front of me and stood. "Yes. Yes, I suppose. All right."

"Bring a book or two, if you'd like."

I did so, picking a couple more off the shelves.

"Would you like some water?"

"No, thank you."

"Very well."

He took me to my room - and aside from the stone walls and floor, the black iron chandelier on the ceiling - a smaller model of the one in the foyer - it was a remarkably ordinary bedroom. Dresser and bed and rug and bedside tables. My bag of essentials was at the foot of the bed.

I stepped in, and put the books on the table closest to me. Erik hadn't left the doorway.

"Yes, well," he murmured. "Do call for me if you need anything."

"I will."

"The door locks," he added.

I stared at him. "I don't...feel like...I need to-"

"I'm-" He put a hand up. "Only mentioning it. Sharing a house with a strange man would put any lady ill at ease, I think."'

"I'm not ill at ease." Why did my heart feel like it was in my stomach? "And you're not a strange man."

"Yes, Christine, I think I am. We are strangers, aren't we?"

"No." My voice was resolute.

He looked away. "Whatever you say, my dear." A pause. "Goodnight, Christine."

He closed the door.

I stood there for, perhaps, two minutes. Feeling terrible about our conversation, but unable to pinpoint the exact thing he said to hurt my feelings so - because everything he said was technically true. For all intents and purposes, we were still strangers. And yet-

I sighed. I dug through the bag of clothes, found a nightgown, and changed into it. I put the rest of the clothes into the dresser, put the toiletries atop it. I noticed with some surprise that there was no mirror here. But deep in the bag, at the bottom, I found a hand mirror to use. All right. That could do.

I went under the sheets, opened a book, and read.

I read for a few hours, continued reading, until my eyes felt heavy. And it was at that point that I put the book away and switched off this room's electric lights, using the switch right by the bed.

It was only when I laid in the dark, that the gravity of my situation dawned on me. Madame and Meg were somewhere unknown, my home was a dangerous place, and I was in the Phantom's house far beneath the theatre.

I closed my eyes.

And tried to let the sound of Erik's voice carry me to sleep.

It was the memory of that voice that lulled me into surprisingly calm, comfortable dreams. Had he not sung, I was sure I would have tossed and turned all night.


	34. Meg

I ate dinner with Raoul, but we didn't talk very much. I was grateful for it. I wanted quiet. If I'd been made to talk, to have a semblance of normal conversation, I would have broken down.

In fact, I nearly did break down once or twice during the meal. I found my throat thickening, needing to put my fork down and swallow whatever was in my mouth. Tears would prick at my eyes. I would take a shuddering breath and force down the rising emotion - the terror for my mother and the worry for Christine. I hoped that they were both all right.

When this rise of fear would bubble up, he merely gave me an understanding nod and looked down, not saying a word about it. Pretending, when the moment passed, that it had never happened at all.

It warmed me even more to him.

But that warmth wasn't enough to keep me from retiring back to bed the moment I'd finished eating, feeling vaguely guilty that I was taking this man's bed. But I'd think of that later, when my mother came back.

If.

When.

If.

My face contorted. I curled up on the bed and sobbed. I'd forgotten to lock the door. But I didn't suspect Raoul would barge in on me. I didn't see him doing that.

The following morning, I awoke with the dawn. With the very beginnings, the whispers, of a headache. Not really because I was tired, or even because I slept too much. Not hunger or thirst. It was due to the fact that I had barely left this room in a day and a half. I did not do well trapped within walls. I had to have a change of environment to feel even vaguely functional.

I went to the dresser full of clothes that Janelle, the maid, had bought for me. A full wardrobe, Raoul had purchased for me, not actually knowing how long I'd be staying. He was a gentleman. I'd have to remember that today when I spoke to him.

I changed into a pretty pink dress, pulling back my hair with a matching ribbon. I stared at myself in the mirror, the yellow light of dawn illuminating the world with more brightness than my mind could currently process, and I sighed. Worrying, fretting, panicking, and crying would do no more good. I had to hold myself together. I had to. And I had to be a good guest to M. Deleon.

Moving to the bedroom door, I took a steadying breath, set my shoulders back, and opened the door.

Immediately the smell of bacon wafted to my nose, making my mouth salivate. I had barely eaten last night at dinner, and was very hungry this morning. I walked through the parlor and into the kitchen, where Janelle was making breakfast, humming to herself. Raoul was at table reading a book. Not the paper, it seemed, but a novel. My movement must have caught his eye, for he looked up.

His eyes lit when he saw how I was dressed. I smiled. "Good morning, Raoul."

He returned the expression. "Good morning." He nodded to the chair across from him, and closed the book. "Would you like to sit?"

I nodded. "Thank you." And took a seat across from him.

We didn't say much as Janelle finished cooking the bacon, placing two pieces on a plate for each of us, along with toast and fresh fruit. She told us to holler if we needed anything, and asked me if she could tidy up in the bedroom. I said yes. She nodded and set off to work.

I turned to Raoul. "Has she already eaten?" I asked.

"This morning, yes, before she came and cooked here. She gets here early."

"How long does she typically stay in a day?"

"Twelve hours, give or take. Gets here at seven and leaves at the same time in the evening."

I nodded. "Is she paid well?"

He gave me a funny look. "Of course."

I blushed. Was that an inappropriate question. "Sorry."

He shrugged. "It's no issue." I picked up a strip of bacon and chewed on it, staring at me. "Are you...feeling..."

"Better," I said quickly. "I'd rather not talk about it." I picked up toast and nibbled.

He nodded. "I see." He paused. "I know what it...feels like."

I cringed. "I said-"

"I won't talk about you," he said. "I'll talk about me. Is that all right?"

I considered this, and decided it was acceptable. I nodded.

"I know what it's like," he said. "To worry about the unknown."

I watched him.

He continued, "My brother instilled in me a sense of...perfection, I suppose. To constantly present myself in a professional yet charming manner, and I...well, I think I'm simply not naturally like that. So anytime I would...make a mistake..." He said the last three words slowly. "He would tease me. A bit cruelly, really. Saying I was pathetic, or awkward, or clumsy. And it...worked, actually. In public, I manage to present myself fairly well. But with women-" He reddened.

I finished for him: "You stumble."

He nodded and looked down. "Yes, that's a good word for it. Courting women has always terrified me, because it involves a level of vulnerability, and that's something I'm scared to..." His gaze went back up to mine. "It's different, for some reason, with you. I pushed past it and took a chance."

"I'm glad you did," I whispered. "Or I'm not sure where I would be right now."

He smiled sadly. "Yes, I think I agree." He seemed to remember what he'd been talking about, for his smile wiped away. "I know it's not the same level of anxiety that you're facing, that it's a different kind of unknown, but-"

"It helps," I said. His hand was on the table. Boldly, I reached for it with my own. He jumped a bit, but immediately relaxed as he stared at my fingers brushing his. "It actually does, to know that you understand, at least on some small level. To know that you're not brushing my worries aside." I smiled at him. "It helps, and I know what that need for perfectionism is like, as well. Thank you for telling me."

We finished breakfast, and we moved to the parlor, both of us picking up a book to read. We sat in silence across from each other, a bit more comfortable in one another's presence. We'd look up every ten minutes or so and smile at each other. Things between M. Deleon and I had eased further into friendship, and I liked it very much - especially given my current situation. I wanted - needed - a friend right now.

Janelle went outside to collect the mail later that morning. She brought in a letter, gave it to Raoul, and went into the kitchen to start on lunch.

Raoul's brows stitched.

I tilted my head at him. "Everything all right?"

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear," he murmured, and looked at me. "It's my brother."

I watched as he opened the letter. He pulled out the parchment and read. His expression gradually paled. He appeared to read it twice.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"He's sick." He closed the letter. "My brother is ill with scarlet fever."

My eyes widened. "Is he...very..."

"It doesn't say."

"Should you go to see him?"

He swallowed. He closed the paper and put it back in the envelope. "No, I was tasked with keeping you safe, and he doesn't know you're with me. I'm not sure if he'd...allow it. It's his name on the apartment, not mine." He grimaced. "Besides, all that will do is possibly put me or you at risk of becoming sick too."

Raoul looked off into nothing for a minute, then sighed and opened up his book again, not before putting the letter on the coffee table. His face was wan, as though he were the one with the illness and not his brother.


	35. Erik

I believed her.

But it didn't change the fact that her deception still stung. It didn't change the fact that, had she not deceived me, we might not be where we were now. She might have simply grown bored of the letters and moved on. That's what hurt - we were brought physically together due to lies and distrust and suspicion. Not through a mutual interest or attraction.

I believed her. Yes. But I felt foolish, even now.

I awoke early, dressed (I'd moved my wardrobe from the bedroom to the chamber, moved one of the dressers there), locked the chamber doors behind me. I couldn't have her discovering my sleeping arrangements.

I went downstairs and walked into my study. I'd leave her a note - I wanted to get started on discovering what I could about this killer; seeing if, perhaps, I could find out who'd taken Isabelle and Emma. I couldn't allow a monster to roam my Opera House.

A second monster, that is.

I pulled out a sheet of paper from within my black oak desk, writing out my explanation for where I would be. I went to the parlor and placed it on the coffee table. That would likely be the first place she'd look - if not the second, should she check the kitchen first.

I'd be back within the next few hours, I let her know. She needn't worry.

Not that she likely would. She didn't seem inclined to be overly fearful.

I went for my lantern by the door, but saw with surprise that it wasn't there. Odd. Had I left it on the boat by accident? I wasn't normally so careless, but it had been a strange day. I opened the front door-

And saw with further shock that she was sitting on the dock, legs bent to the side with the lantern next to her, staring into the black water.

I raised a brow at her. "Christine."

Her gaze whipped to mine. She blinked, then glanced at the lantern. "Sorry." She made to stand, bringing the light with her. "I wanted to be outside. Well - as outside as I could be." She looked at the water. "Remember you said there were mermaids in the lake?"

"I do."

"I wish I'd believed that." She gave a sad smile. "I wish I had the capacity to." A pause. "That's what I was thinking, just now. How nice it would be to have that sort of worldview, that anything is possible."

"I suppose," I said, "but your worldview is what motivated that first letter, isn't it? Had you been as gullible as the rest of the Opera cast, you wouldn't even know my name."

She held my stare. "I'm glad I know your name."

"Why?"

A flicker of regret in her eyes. "You have taken me in to keep me safe. Whatever doubt I'd had regarding my feelings of friendship for you is gone."

"I appreciate it." I couldn't tell if she was saying these words out of genuine affection or guilt. I didn't want to get my hopes too high. "Unfortunately, Christine, I do need my lantern. I need to return to the surface. I'd like to do a bit of digging into who the killer might be."

She straightened. "I want to come."

I was taken aback. "Absolutely not."

"Absolutely yes." She stepped forward, lantern swinging lightly in her hand. "It involves me, doesn't it? I should be involved."

"This is a matter for the Phantom, Christine."

"Then I'll be a Phantom, too."

I blinked, and then laughed. "Really? I don't think so. There is only one Opera Ghost."

"Then I won't call myself an Opera Ghost. I will be..." She thought. "I will be the Ballet Wraith."

I merely stared at her, lips twitching.

I didn't say so aloud, but if I was truthful, I think I liked that title.

She narrowed her eyes at me. "I won't give you the lantern if you don't let me come."

I scoffed, though I was immensely amused. "I could make the journey with or without light."

"It'll be inconvenient, though."

"Keeping me hostage in my own home, my dear?" I took a slow step toward her. She didn't back down, though women and men larger, older than her had shrunk under my stare. Christine, however, seemed to tilt her chin up a bit higher. "I thought we were done with the manipulations."

She did seem to become smaller at that, her face going blank with shame. "Sorry," she whispered. Then she held out the lantern to me. For me to take. Away from her. An offering of defeat and apology.

I sighed.

I could deny her nothing.

Pitiful. Pathetic. Desperate.

I nodded to the gondola. "Get in the boat."

Her eyes widened. "Pardon me?"

"Get in the boat, Ballet Wraith. We have a monster to trap."


	36. Raoul

Meg was in the kitchen with Janelle, helping to prepare dinner. I'd elected to stay in the parlor, half-reading a novel. I'd been on the same page for ten minutes, and this wasn't a large book, nor was the print small. I was merely unable to think of anything but Philippe.

I'd resented Philippe since I could remember ever having an opinion of my brother. Mean, womanizing, pompous - he'd given my family name a reputation. And I...well, I suppose I loved him, as he was my only sibling.

But if he hadn't been blood...

I think I would have hated him.

It was hard not to, when he'd never actually been kind to me - the kindnesses he had shown were small and effortless. A gift at Christmas or on my birthday. Taking me on trips to England or Spain. But never any real connections. Never any true brotherly affections. I'd been closer to my wet-nurses, to my nannies, than I had ever been to my brother. And I'd never known my parents - my mother died in childbirth and my father, a much older man, passed of heart failure when I was two. By then, my brother (half-brother, really, as our mothers were not the same) had already been in his mid-twenties. He'd raised me.

Reminding me to be grateful for it every day. Reminding me that I was, in fact, a burden. Reminding me that I would never, ever be good enough.

I heard Meg and Janelle laugh at some joke I'd missed, and my body relaxed some. Never mind my brother. He would be fine. He was rich enough to afford the best doctors. He'd make it.

A knock at the door.

"Raoul!"

"It's us!"

The twins.

Again. Only a day later.

Surely they hadn't had enough time by now...

I went to the door and opened it. Albert and Julien were both dressed in their best, each holding a pie.

They grinned.

I glanced back, but nether Meg nor Janelle had seemed to leave the kitchen. I looked at the twins. "Are you here with information?"

"We are here with desserts," said Julien.

I raised a brow at them. "For?"

"Dinner." Albert sniffed the air. "And I can smell it from here."

"I think it's beef stew," Julien commented. "Is it beef stew?"

"Janelle wasn't expecting guests," I said lowly, "and neither was I."

"Janelle!" Albert called, loudly. I think my ears rang. Julien snorted.

A beat. "Is that my most favorite twin in Paris?" she called back.

"Well now!" yelled Julien, voice offended by face gleeful.

"And there is my other favorite!"

Both twins chuckled. I glared at them. I heard Janelle's footsteps behind me. "What can I do for you two?"

"We have brought pies," said Albert. They both held up the flaky desserts. "Lydia made them." Lydia was their own cook. "We were hoping there was enough stew for us as well."

"Of course," she responded. I looked back at her. She saw my facial expression. "Assuming Monsieur is all right with this, of course."

I sighed, and said, "Janelle, I'd like to speak with the Martins alone. Is that all right?"

"Of course, sir." She went back to the kitchen to join Meg.

I turned back to the twins, both looking entirely pleased with themselves, and I left the apartment. I closed the door behind me, as I'd done yesterday morning. I had shoes on this time. "What in fresh hell are you doing?"

"Visiting our friend, of course," replied Albert.

"Our good friend, Raoul," added Julien.

"Our best friend."

"A man we'd die for."

"Well, maybe not die for."

"Experience pain for."

"Depends on the pain, I suppose. Nothing too terrible."

"Be mildly inconvenienced for."

"What kind of inconvenience are we speaking-"

"What," I repeated slowly, "do you want?"

"To meet Meg," answered Julien. "A girl has finally piqued your interest. We want to see what, exactly, makes her so special."

"Other than the fact that she's hiding from a deranged woman-killer, of course." Albert gave a charming smile.

"No." No. Definitely not.

"Why not?" they both asked at once.

"Because..." I scoffed. "It's inappropriate. She's trying to...process. I don't think she wants company-"

"Have you asked her?" said Albert.

"Yes, have you?" piped in Julien.

I scowled. "No, but-"

"Then ask." Albert gave a crooked smile. "See what she says."

\- - - - - - - - - -

"My, Janelle, this is delicious."

"You have outdone yourself, really."

I'd decided, as I watched the twins digging into their stew across from Meg and me at the dining room table.

Yes. I'd decided. I absolutely would find the nearest train tracks and splay myself across them, waiting eagerly for the soonest locomotive to crush me underneath its wheels. It would be preferable to whatever they were going to say to Meg.

I couldn't believe she'd agreed to the company. All she had to do was decline - but no. No, she said that company sounded wonderful.

She'd first asked if they were to be trusted. Every instinct told me to say that no, they were not to be trusted, they were scoundrels of the worst, most hellish degree. But my stupid mouth said yes anyway. They were safe. And they were truly. Lords of jest, often obnoxious, perhaps, but harmless.

The danger wasn't what they'd say to others. It was what they'd say to Meg.

Janelle smiled at their compliments and told them that there were leftovers if they cared for seconds. They'd expressed great enthusiasm at that idea. She walked back into the kitchen.

When she did, they looked at Meg, who was looking back at them pleasantly. Innocently. A little bird staring into the eyes of hungry, clever foxes. I suppressed a groan.

"I have an idea," said Albert, smiling. I stiffened. "Let's play a game of 'How well do we know our companions'? I'll play with Julien. Meg and Raoul will be partners."

"Let's not," I said lowly, through my teeth.

"Come now, Raoul."

"Why don't we sit quietly, instead," I suggested. "Or talk about the weather. Or-"

"But we should have fun! Life is short."

I glared at him. "Not short enough."

To my surprise, Julien elbowed Albert in the ribs, giving him a small look of warning. It was brief, perhaps a second in length, but I saw it. And I felt gratitude for it.

"So, Meg," he said, "you are a ballerina?"

She nodded.

"What's that like?"

As Julien kept Meg occupied, I watched Albert reach into his pants pocket and bring out a small strip of paper. He hid it under his napkin. Not looking at me, but instead nodding quietly to whatever Meg was saying, he slid the napkin toward me. When I didn't reach for it, he gave me a small look, widening his eyes, and nodding quickly at the cloth.

I understood.

I placed my hand on the cloth, Meg not noticing, and pulled it toward me. Albert's hands retreated to the sides of his bowls and he was immediately engaged in the conversation. I lifted the napkin and read the paper.

\-----  
Detective found Madame Giry's glasses, crushed, in the workstation of a stagehand. We are friends with the Detective's son. That's all we know so far.  
\-----

I felt the blood leave my face. I hid the note in my own pocket and glanced up to Albert. He gave me a brief look of apology, uncharacteristically grave, and then went back to his conversation. I took a deep breath and made myself join their lightheartedness. But my heart was pounding in my chest.


	37. Christine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: So, I realized that the timeline is a liiiiittle bit off, and that's my mistake. Raoul and Meg's story is currently later "today", at dinnertime, while Erik and Christine are still in the morning. They will be on the same "schedule" by the end of this chapter.

"Hurry and change, Christine."

I nodded, closing the door to my dressing room as he waited against the wall outside. We'd realized fairly quickly that wearing my day clothes, big and heavy as they were, through the hidden spaces of the stage and theatre...was not ideal. Not if I wanted to be stealthy and quiet. The hallway to his lair was different - it was spacious. The secret passages aboveground were not.

So I'd wear the costume I'd worn for Hannibal. Light, close-fitting, if not a bit revealing. But it was nothing Erik hadn't already seen. Not if he'd watched the show himself.

And he made no comment about my exposed legs and arms, either. His eyes didn't linger anywhere except my eyes. A gentleman. Not like Buquet.

Buquet. The man Erik claimed he suspected. Though I'd mentally started at this, it hadn't...well, it hadn't truly shocked me. Not when he'd been so lewd to me. To Meg. To all of the girls. It was certainly plausible.

"We will come back to collect the dress after we investigate," he said, nodding to the dressing room. "Rehearsal is not until this afternoon. No one should be here for hours."

"All right." I set my shoulders back and nodded. "Yes. Good."

He signaled for me to follow. We went immediately to the stage. He was still holding his lantern, as the theatre was dark; and that did put me on edge. Every creak of the floorboards made the hairs on my arms stand straight up.

"Don't be afraid," he said, obviously noting my jumpy nature.

"I'm not afraid." I said it too quickly. Harshly. I blew out a breath.

He said nothing to that.

But looking out at the empty rows of seats, barely illuminated by the yellow light, knowing anyone could be hiding behind the back of a chair, unseen, unnoticed...I stood a bit closer to Erik, even though the yellow light threw shadows across him too, making him look like the the threatening ghost he played.

"You are safe, Christine." He was watching me with those strange mismatched eyes. "I won't let harm come to you."

I bit my lip and nodded.

"Come." He offered his hand. "Buquet's station is this way."

I took his gloved fingers. I relaxed exponentially at the contact. Safe. I was safe. I had to remember that. I was being protected - by the Phantom of the Opera, for God's sake. I was beyond safe.

His eyes warmed at my softened posture. The prologue of a smile met his lower lip and he led me forward, toward the right wing of the stage, opposite of the one we'd emerged from.

"There." He lifted the lantern and lit a workstation - the largest one. A wooden table with drawers underneath like a crude desk. A stool made of a similar material. Stacks of paper on the desk, a pen, and a little knife, like a paring knife but smaller and curved. As we came closer, it became clear what the instrument was for - a whittling knife, next to which was a carved fish, made of a reddish wood.

"A fan of arts and crafts, I see," commented Erik.

I smirked in response. "Heckling women isn't his only hobby. Color me shocked."

He hardened beside me, as though he were wood himself. "Has he ever heckled you?"

"Once or twice." I shrugged. "Nothing I couldn't handle. It was the other girls I was worried for."

"I see." He stared at me a moment longer, then took a step toward the station. "You know..." His throat bobbed. "I do admire your strength."

"Oh?" I watched him.

He nodded. "You needn't have pretended...changed your personality. To deceive me."

Guilt again gnawed at me. "Erik - I..."

"No." He shook his head. "You've apologized enough. I'm merely saying..." He sighed. "You don't shrink from me."

"Why would I?" I knew why.

He gave a low, one-note laugh. "Am I not intimidating?"

"No."

"Jules seems to think so."

"Well, Jules doesn't like me, either."

He turned to me fully again. "You're the first woman to treat me like..."

"Like?"

"I'm a man." A bit of pain line his eyes, and he turned away quickly. "Like I'm not some sort of...devil. A criminal. A predator. All for what I look like - a thing I cannot change, but would if I could." He exhaled. "Don't pity me, please."

"I don't."

He whipped his gaze to me.

I repeated, "I don't. I think it's awful you have gone through that. Your appearance did...surprise me, yes. I won't lie. But then I saw your-" I shut my mouth, blushing.

"My?..." he pressed, looking entirely needful in his want to hear the rest of my thought. Like he depended on it. Like he couldn't not know what it was that proved to me he wasn't a monster - like that information was his lifeblood.

I obliged. "Your eyes." I knew I was beet red. "You have gentle eyes. And my father always said that the eyes are the window to the soul, so..." I shrugged. "I - I trusted you." And he'd trusted me. I betrayed that trust. It had been for Meg, for Isabelle...but how unfortunate that he'd been in the crossfire. I'd put him there.

His mouth parted just slightly, and those eyes widened, shining with some sudden emotion. "My..." He closed his mouth and swallowed. He paused, then laughed without joy. "I always found my eyes ugly. Sunken and bicolored. Abnormal. The fact that they're what endeared..." He laughed again, but the sound was heartbreaking. I nearly responded when he cleared his throat, placing the lantern on the station. "Let's start. Here." He halved the stack of papers and put them in front of me. "Skim through these. If you find anything amiss, let me know."

I nodded, feeling a change in the atmosphere. It was somehow smaller, more intimate. I didn't hate it.

We set to work. The pages, I saw, were of the current opera being performed. They were scribbled on with notes, illegible likely but to the very person who'd written them. I squinted at the letters, wondering if Buquet were perhaps not literate.

Both of us were silent as we scanned through, but half my mind was on his presence. His movements. How tall he was, thin but deceptively strong - I'd seen with what ease he pushed the boat across the lake. And not just that, but how intelligent, kind, talented-

"Christine."

I was taken from my thoughts. I looked at him. "Yes."

"Look."

I moved my gaze to where his eyes were laying. And with how terrible his handwriting was, it took a moment to realize what I was seeing.

Names.

Names of all of the girls and women in the theatre.

And timestamps next to each one.

"What..." I whispered.

He stared at it momentarily, then said, "I...think...I think this is a notation of when ballerinas and singers are coming and going."

I think he was right. The thought chilled me.

I looked for my own name. I found it. It was crossed off. So was Meg's. Madame Giry's. Isabelle's. Emma's.

That feeling took hold of me. That fear that something was standing behind me in the dark. Those tendrils of ice, that rush of adrenaline that made me want to scream or run or both. I did neither.

No, like I was taken over by some animal instinct, I grabbed Erik's hand and squeezed it, my breath coming in and out sharply.

He froze. I didn't look at him.

"Christine," he whispered.

"Hm."

"You're safe." His voice, his beautiful voice, was gentle. "I promise."

I nodded rapidly, but my grip on his hand didn't relent. He didn't pull away. But he did go for a sheet of blank paper and pick up a pen. I watched him write - and, as I was holding his right hand, I realized he must have been left-handed. Or ambidextrous. Either, I felt, was somehow fitting.

"What..." My voice had gone. I tried again. "What are you writing?"

"A letter of warning for our friend Joseph Buquet." He frowned, but there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Letting him know that the Opera Ghost and Ballet Wraith are onto him. That he'd better be careful or he, himself, will swim with Isabelle in the Seine."

I stared at him. "You plan on killing him?"

He paused. "No, I'd rather let Paris and its police deal with him." He glanced at me. "But a little fear is good for the heart. Keeps it pumping. And our overweight friend could use the cardiovascular exercise. Don't you think, my dear?"


	38. Raoul

I was terrified to tell her.

Meg had only just learned to be comfortable here. She'd only just managed to keep her terror and grief under control, and now...this. Her mother's glasses were broken and found on the workstation of a stagehand. The poor girl would be in pieces.

And yet.

I couldn't keep this from her. It would be entirely unfair. It was her mother, for Christ's sake. I wouldn't keep her in the dark - not about this.

I let her laugh with the twins. They'd weaseled their way into her favor, the charming bastards - and she won their favors as well. I could tell. But, really, how could she not? Sweet, beautiful, talented-

I had to tell her. I loathed to see her upset, panic, cry. But I needed to let her know.

When Julien and Albert at last left, each holding their full stomachs, exclaiming to Janelle how their bellies were about to burst with just how delicious her cooking was, I closed the door behind them. Meg was on one of the sofas, where we'd gone after dinner to have coffee and tea. She smiled at me and lifted the tea to her lips.

I forced a small and sat across from her. My own coffee was still on the table, cold and barely touched. I'd lost my appetite for both food and drink after I'd read the note from Albert. That damned napkin.

"Your friends are so nice." She put her tea on the table. Her hands went to either side of her small hips and she leaned forward. "Albert and Julien. They've a wonderful sense of humor."

I tried not to roll my eyes. As much as I agreed, I could never let them know she'd said that. It would go right to their heads, both of which were already far too big. But I didn't respond. I merely nodded lightly and looked at the coffee table, my stomach turning.

"Raoul?"

I glanced up. Her expression had changed to one of concern, brows stitched and frowning. She tilted her head.

"Are you all right?" she asked me.

My smile disappeared. "Meg."

"Yes?"

"Albert...gave me news. At dinner."

"What kind of news?"

"About your mother," I whispered.

She seemed to turn to ice - face going white as sheet lightning, body a rigid and cold glacier. "My mother?"

"Yes." Slowly, I went to my pocket and brought out the note. I stood, legs weak, and went to sit next to her. I handed her the slip of paper. "I...I'm not..." I let her examine it. She stared at it for far longer than it should take to read. "I'm sorry, Meg."

"She-" Her voice was small. "She could be all right. This doesn't mean...anything."

"Right." I nodded. "Right."

A long pause. "Raoul?"

"Yes, Meg?"

"Christine is with a man named Jules Bernard. He is a production assistant at the theatre."

I stared at her. I hadn't known this. "I see."

"Can I send word to her that I'm safe? And perhaps have her send word back to me?"

My stomach dropped at that. "I...do you trust this man?"

"My mother seemed to, if she let her stay with him."

But that didn't make me feel any better. "Do you know where he lives?"

"No," she whispered.

I paused. "Meg, I don't know. I...what if this man is connected to the killer?"

Her breath hitched. "Then Christine would be in danger."

"And if I send word, then Janelle - or whoever sends the message - could be followed back here. You will be in danger, too."

Her hands went into fists, the paper crunching in her hand. "I...know you're right. You're right. I have to remain hidden. But I...miss them. I want to know they are all right."

And to my horror, her face fell. She bared her teeth, closed her eyes, and sobbed.

I realized, at that...at how quickly her emotions had turned. She hadn't been all right. She hadn't gotten comfortable, not really. She'd only been absolutely marvelous at pretending. As though she'd had plenty of practice in faking her own emotions.

Like me.

"Oh, Meg." My heart broke. "I'm sorry."

Shock mixed with the horror as she leaned to her left, in my direction, and rested her head on my shoulder. I was rigid, only for a moment, and then my affections for her took over and I found myself wrapping my arms around her.

She cried on my shoulder for half an hour. And I let her. At one point, I reached up a hand to stroke her hair. She allowed it. In fact, she seemed to nuzzle in closer at the contact. I began rocking, and the motion soothed her some. Her cries would turn to hiccups, only to start up again a few minutes later.

Scared. Vulnerable. Lonely. I knew those feelings. Perhaps not to the degree she now felt them. But I knew them on a thinner, lengthier level. I didn't want her to experience even an ounce of that pain, let alone the intensity she now experienced.

But the idea of letting her expose her whereabouts to get word to and from Christine... No. And even if Jules was a good man, then there was little guarantee he would admit her location, anyway - I certainly wouldn't admit Meg was here to a stranger, at this point.

We were now leaning back against the couch, and I was still embracing her. My cheek was on the top of her head. Her crying abated, turning again to hiccups. A few minutes later, those hiccups turned to breathing. Even, heavy breathing.

She was asleep. Asleep against me.

And it was that show of trust, that proof that she saw me not as awkward, or pathetic, or useless. She saw me as someone who would protect her and soothe her.

It was that revelation that made me realize: I didn't just like Meg, wasn't just attracted to her.

Because as she slept on my shoulder, I saw a vision of her living with me permanently - a vision of a ring on her finger.


	39. Erik

With rare exception, the managers were first or second to arrive at the Opera. Second, only because Madame Giry was sometimes here before them. Ever prompt, that woman. Ever diligent and strict and commanding.

Lord, I hoped she was all right. If she'd been hurt... A second life, I think, would be taken by me. Morality and gentility be absolutely damned. My promise to never harm another be damned, too. She'd considered me - me - an angel. Losing her from the world would be the worst sort of tragedy. A true crime. And I would not allow it.

And should Christine ever be harmed - I would not think of it. No, my blood was boiling at the mere idea.

She was holding fast to my fingers as I led her through the hidden passageway behind the managers' office that Andre and Firmin shared. We'd already placed the list with our letter on the very top of a stack of papers on Firmin's desk. And now it was time to see what they'd do with the information. Morons that they were, this was something the managers couldn't ignore.

Christine's grip on my hand tightened a bit when the two-way mirror, not unlike the one in the dressing room, came into view. This mirror was attached to their office, and also acted as a door. Her eyes widened when she saw the sudden light coming through the glass, saw the managers already poring over the list. So. We'd come just in time.

But as I felt the pressure of her fingers in mine, I couldn't concentrate on the scene before me. I could only focus on the words she'd said this morning.

My eyes.

She'd trusted me because of my eyes. She found them gentle. Against the harshness of the rest of my body, she found my eyes to be a well of calm. An oasis in a jagged, dark desert.

I knew the moment she'd said it that for as long as I lived, I would carry that comment with me. I would never forget it, that gift. That small bit of light she had offered me. I don't think she entirely realized how extraordinary it had been. To her, it was a few words. That was all. But...to me-

Andre suddenly let out a bitter laugh. He was shorter than Firmin by a head, hair balding and grey. Likely older than him by ten or fifteen years. "A second ghost - really! Not only do we have the Phantom to deal with, but now someone called the Ballet Wraith-"

"Fitting, I suppose," commented Firmin, black clouds shadowing his tone. "The Ballet Wraith - when two more ballet girls are unaccounted for. Two! Completely gone...vanished overnight. Into thin air."

"And the dance instructor," reminded Andre.

"Yes. Of course." Firmin looked exhausted. He picked up a little black notebook off his desk, holding it in his hands, stroking the leather, like it was a precious and comforting object. It was worn, and a few pages appeared to be ripped or askew, the way they were hanging out of the binding. "Good Lord. At this rate, half our cast will be gone by next month."

"This list." Andre narrowed his green eyes at it. He walked away from the desk, the footsteps made by his expensive shoes crisp on the marble floor. "The letter did say it was found in Buquet's papers?"

"Yes. And-well, take a look at the writing. Have you seen Buquet's notes? I've no doubt that it's him."

"It's certainly damning." He turned to his partner again. "But enough to convict him? That I don't know."

"Why else would the man keep score of the comings and goings of women? All of the missing ones...they're crossed off. What information does he have? That's what I'd like to know."

"It is odd." Andre tsked. "A shame about the little Giry girl. So young - and already the star of the ballet." A pause, and then his eyes went alight. "Hold on...I-"

"What?" Firmin, who'd been leaning against the desk straightened. He stepped forward, still gripping his little book. "What is it?"

"Were you backstage the night we opened Hannibal?"

"I was not."

"I was." He nodded slowly, thinking. "And I distinctly remember Meg Giry talking to a patron who'd gone to visit the cast. A very distinguished patron - Raoul de Chagny."

Christine stiffened beside me.

"The vicomte?" Firmin's voice was low with incredulity.

I glanced to my left. She had her jaw slackened, eyes wide. Well. Either Meg had neglected to reveal her conversation with Vicomte de Chagny to Christine, or she hadn't known who he was.

"Yes," replied Andre. "The young man is studying in Paris." He sucked his teeth. "He was acting odd that night, talking to her." 

"Hm." Firmin considered his. "A...suitor, perhaps?"

"Or perhaps more."

Firmin's mouth went agape. "You...suspect..."

"It's him or Buquet. Our two best guesses. But until we tell the detective, that's all they are. Guesses."

The managers shared a look of agreement, then exited the room at a brisk pace - Andre holding the list and Firmin gripping the note (he'd pocketed the little book). I wondered vaguely if that note would point me - and now Christine - as an official suspect, as well...assuming, quite boldly, that I wasn't already one, of course. But even if the detective came looking for my lair, I'd been targeted by police before. Lefevre had tried and failed to find me, before he'd eventually relented and gave me my salary. I was never found unless I wanted to be.

Except, of course, when it came to Christine, the little vixen beside me. Though, deep down, I supposed I'd hoped she'd find her way to me. And after this morning, my regret for just how she'd found me was rapidly abating. Bygones be bygones.

When the door closed with a click, the room empty, and I was sure the managers were out of earshot, I said, "That's that, then. It's in the detective's hands now."

"If..." she whispered, and I looked at her. Her free hand worked at her side. "If Meg is with...but I thought his name..." She shook her head and blew out a breath. "I guess we will find out soon enough."

She was fretting, in the quiet way she did so. I longed to comfort her, but didn't dare touch anything but her hand. I doubted she'd want me to.


	40. Christine

An underling stagehand found the note from us before Buquet did.

And the rumors of the Ballet Wraith had spread to the entire technical crew by the end of rehearsal. Two days later, and it had become common knowledge with the whole theatre. The most accepted story was that the Ballet Wraith was one of the three ballet girls who'd fallen victim to the mysterious killer, either Isabelle or Meg or me. Or perhaps it was Emma, who thought she had so much dancing knowledge. Or perhaps it was Madame Giry - the true ballet expert.

Whatever the case, there was a silent sort of distrust for Joseph Buquet, from everyone. People glanced in other directions when he walked by. The stagehands, who normally joked with him, who normally went out drinking with him after rehearsals, found other places to be, other people to talk to.

He was constantly looking over his shoulder now. Distracted. Tired.

Polite.

And it filled Erik and me with the best kind of satisfaction.

The kind of satisfaction that helped me get to sleep at night. That, despite hearing that the man Meg had been spending time with had possibly given her a false name, the fact that I had no idea if this was who she was with now, whether she was safe or not...despite all of that, Buquet's discomfort gave me some peace.

Because not only was he a louse to every girl in the theatre, his involvement in the murder and disappearances made an enormous amount of sense. Madame Giry's glasses had been found on his workstation, apparently, before we'd gone looking; the glasses had been taken by the detective. And though this worried me, made my heart race, I had to believe that she was all right. I had to have faith in that, though the cynical part of me dreaded what I knew could be true.

I hated Buquet, I decided. I hated that he was so smug. That he'd known so much of St. Juste while he, himself, went under the radar. He'd known far too much.

Hopefully, if they found Buquet to be the killer, St. Juste would turn out to be innocent. Hopefully they weren't both involved.

I had managed to push my worries for Meg from my mind - because worrying would do no good while I waited for news of Raoul - and just start to sleep when a sound made its way to my room.

I recognized it immediately.

Violin.

My heart stopped.

Not just any violin playing. Not the sound from the orchestra pit that I could easily ignore. No this was...

This was the sound my father promised. The sound of the Angel of Music.

A well of emotion bubbled in my chest. At that sound, I was a child again, holding my father's hand as he was on his deathbed. I listened to him tell me the story of that Angel, that being that would play its violin like an embrace, that would look over me as it made its music.

And then after my father was in the ground, when the promised Angel never came. When I found myself alone in this world. Completely alone. I had Madame. I had Meg. But they'd never quite filled the achingly large hole my father and his empty promises left behind.

Feeling as though I'd burst, I flung back the blankets. I was still in my nightgown as I sped, barefoot, through the enormous windowless stone house. I followed the sound downstairs, through the parlor, and into the study, with its door already wide open.

Erik stood there, back to me, playing the instrument. Enraptured in the sound. Enraptured as I was.

Erik.

The music was too...pure. Too beautiful to be anything any mortal man could play. It was angelic. Truly angelic.

Hearing that music, I wondered if my father hadn't lied. Perhaps it had been Erik.

I felt overwhelmed and relieved all at once. I refused to believe, and yet - oh, God, I wanted to. If his voice hadn't been enough...then this...

I let out a sob, and like he was electrified, he spun. That lovely, otherworldly music ended.

He took a step back in surprise when he saw me there, tears streaming down my face. "Christine?" he whispered. "My dear girl, what's happened?"

"It's you," I sobbed. I willed myself to pull my wits together, but that scared and heartbroken young girl had taken over. "You're who he sent."

He looked utterly bewildered. "I'm sorry?"

"The Angel of Music." It wasn't what I meant, not really. I didn't think he was truly an angel, walking the Earth, but-

He frowned. "Christine, I'm not-"

"No," I amended through cries. They wouldn't stop. "No, I know. I know...you're a man. But maybe he'd meant...you. An angel in a symbolic sense."

He only stared at me. His own eyes had begun to shine.

"Your violin playing has no other explanation." On this I was resolute. Or desperate for my father's stories to be true. Or both. "My Papa sent you to me."

Erik's mouth opened slightly, then closed. He held my stare as he slowly put his violin onto its stand. He took several steps toward me. "You believe," he said, "that I am a gift from your father."

I said nothing. It sounded ridiculous. I knew that. But...after hearing his playing, after feeling as I ran through the house that perhaps my father had actually kept his vow, to have all of that dashed... I would break apart. Right here.

"I want it to be true," I whispered. "He promised when he died he would send me the Angel of Music." I looked at him, into his eyes, and my voice turned pleading. "Don't tell me he really did lie. When I heard that music, I thought...I really thought-" I broke into sobs again.

He watched me cry, looking like he might join me himself.

"When he died, I was lonely." More tears. "I've been lonely. For years. I know I lied to you, but I didn't lie about that. I feel alone, really alone, and when I heard the music-" Another sob wrenched itself from me.

I would regret this, later. I knew I would. I would feel like a fool for this. I never broke down. I hadn't cried like this since the night my father left this world. And Erik would find this uncomfortable, my incoherent thoughts and pathetic blubbering. He would excuse himself, find another place to be, and have trouble looking me in the eye for days. Meanwhile, my loneliness would deepen, and...

Slowly, with such tenderness that it nearly destroyed me, he moved with languid grace to stand directly in front of me and lifted a long, thin, bare thumb - he had taken his gloves off to play - to wipe a tear away. He barely touched my skin. I sucked in a breath. When I did, he blinked and retreated his hand, retreated himself. Back. Away. Away.

"No," I said, voice cracking. I reached for his hand and gripped it. And at that contact, I wanted more. So I waited a beat, watched him as he stared at where our skin connected for the first time, and stepped forward to wrap my arms around him, closing my eyes.

He let out an airy sound of surprise. He seemed not to know what to do. "Christine," he said, breathless.

I opened my eyes again. "Is this all right?"

He exhaled unevenly. Then: "Yes."

A silence.

"Erik?"

"Christine?" Still, he sounded as though he were on the peak of a mountain. In awe but scared to move.

"Can you put your arms around me, too?"

I felt his limbs and hands shake as they moved slowly up to reach me. His fingers didn't stop quivering where they were touching my silk-covered back.

Perhaps he didn't want this. "Should I let go of you?"

"No." His answer was immediate, harsh, and full of pain and...something else. I couldn't place it. "No. Please."

So he held me. And eventually, his hands stopped shaking. Eventually, his body loosened. Eventually, he was able to ease his breath, and the hug became a more natural thing.

It was only later, when we'd finally let go, when he escorted me back to my bedroom and looked at me with wonder as I smiled at him; it was only when I closed the door and went under the sheets that I realized:

This man was entirely unused to affection. Any kind of physical affection. It was the only answer to his intense reaction.

I closed my eyes, making a mental note to show him more. But the note was unneeded, really. I wanted to show it to him regardless.


	41. Meg

"Is it...a dog?"

Raoul let out a breathy laugh and shook his head. He scribbled out the floppy ears and drew much larger ones. The drawing was only half done. So far, he'd guessed all of mine in under twenty seconds. I'd guessed his first one in just under a minute. I hadn't been able to discern the second. My goal was to determine what this third one was in under ten.

It wasn't working.

Nine seconds had gone by and I was failing miserably.

He then added a long nose, like-

"A trunk! - An elephant!" I exclaimed, clapping my hands in front of me. I gave him the hint of a scowl. "Well, you could have led with that!"

He chuckled, and flipped the paper over for me to take a turn. "Either you're a terrible guesser," he said, "or I'm a terrible artist."

I grinned. "Or both."

He sucked his teeth, but it was lighthearted. I continued smiling as I set to work on my own drawing. Something obscure. Something he wouldn't guess right away.

I decided on a corset. Unless he was a particular type of boy, I doubted he'd know easily what that was.

I doubted, too, that he normally kept himself as occupied as he currently was with me. I knew why he was doing this - filling our days with nonstop games and conversations. My breakdown two nights ago had pushed us somehow closer together. I'd laid my head on his shoulder without even thinking. And he hadn't hesitated in wrapping his arms around me.

If nothing else, he was absolutely my friend at this point. And such a good friend he was. He had to be exhausted, trying to keep me entertained at all waking hours. I wanted to tell him that he didn't have to. But I also knew that stopping, letting my mind go idle, would only result in more panic, more tears.

I started on my drawing.

"A dress."

I shook my head.

"A...waistcoat?"

I shook my head again, wanting to laugh.

He tilted his head, twisting his face in confusion. "What-" He inhaled and exhaled. "I give up. What is that?"

Definitely not a particular type of boy. It only made me like him a bit more.

I was about to tell him, when a knock sounded at the door. I lifted my gaze to his. "Is that Albert and Julien?"

"Could be." He stood and stretched. We'd been sitting for two hours now. "I'll go and see."

I nodded. Janelle was preparing dinner in the kitchen. I listened to her move around the pots and pans, heard a sizzle, as he went to the door. I myself went to the bedroom door, opened it, and went inside, as he'd told me to do if there were unexpected guests. I kept the door cracked, though, and listened.

"Oh-" Raoul's voice sounded surprised. "Hello. Can I help you?"

Not the twins, then.

"Good evening," said the guest, in a vague, unfamiliar accent. "Is this the residence of one Raoul de Chagny?"

I started. So did Raoul. He said, "Who...is asking?"

The man cleared his throat. "My name is Nadir Khan. I am a detective with the Parisian police. I ask again: is this the residence of Raoul de Chagny."

Raoul paused, then his voice was small. "Yes. That's me."

De Chagny.

Raoul de Chagny. The vicomte. Brother of...brother of Philippe de Changy. The infamous French comte. How...

That couldn't be.

There had to be an explanation beyond...well, beyond the obvious. That Raoul had lied to me about who he was - his name. He wouldn't have done that. Surely.

"Very good. Might I come in? I only have a few questions."

"Do you have...a badge?"

"Oh, yes. Of course." A pause. "Satisfied?"

Silence.

"I suppose. Yes. Come in, then."

In my surprise - and eagerness at talking to a detective - I opened the bedroom door.

Raoul made way for the detective, who I saw had sparkling jade eyes and a black goatee around his lips. His skin was extremely tan. He walked in, hands behind his back, nodding to Raoul. Raoul closed the door behind him, not meeting my gaze.

But the detective did. And when he saw me, his brows raised. He gave another small bow. "Madame de Chagny, I take it?"

"No," I said softly.

"Then, your name?"

I glanced at Raoul, who was staring down, face entirely pale. And that - oh, it made me angry. Because he wouldn't be avoiding my gaze if there wasn't a misunderstanding. His look of shame was an admission of guilt. But why lie about his name? His title?

I wouldn't lie about my own name, I decided. I would tell the truth - especially to the detective. "Meg. Meg Giry."

Nadir Khan's eyes went wide. His lips parted. "Meg Giry."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know," he said, "that half of Paris is wondering where you are?"

I stared at him.

"You were reported missing, along with your mother and another girl - Christine Daae. Did you know that?"

I didn't say a word.

"Yes." He nodded. "It's in the papers. After what happened to the Isabelle girl, after Emma Rougeaux - the famed alto - disappeared as well, the sudden absence of you three has everyone suspecting extremely foul play. And I don't doubt that. But to find you here - alive." He glanced at Raoul, then looked back at me. "Do you know, then, the location of your mother?"

"I don't," I whispered. "I wish I did."

He took a long, slow breath. "Right." He studied me a moment longer. "And why are you here?"

"My mother brought me here." My voice was shaking. "She said she knew the identity of the killer, so she brought me here to be safe. Then she left."

"What of Christine Daae, then? Do you know where she is?"

"Yes - yes, actually." My spine straightened, rod-stiff. "My mother said she was with Jules Bernard."

"And he is?"

"A production assistant at the Opera."

At that, the detective pulled from his coat pocket a small notebook and pen. He began to write. "Is he normally at rehearsals?"

"Usually, yes."

"Thank you." He looked up at me, and regarded me kindly. "Is there anything else you could tell me that might be of use?"

I thought about it, and the only thing I could come up with was: "Joseph Buquet."

He narrowed his eyes. "What about him?"

"He's always been inappropriate to the girls."

He waited, then said. "Is that all?"

"Yes." I bit my lip. "But I think it's worth...noting."

"Of course." But he didn't note it. When my expression turned to one of concern, he added, "This is information I already have, Mlle. Giry. He is..." He smiled, and I could tell he wanted to say more but the nature of his job disallowed it. "Anything else?"

"Only that my mother seemed to be...I don't know. It seemed as though she was being chased. Or like she had limited time. She was trying to get some sort of evidence to you the day she disappeared."

He stared at me for a long time. "I pray that the evidence is not back with the potential perpetrator. I don't like the implication if that were to be the case."

I agreed. I looked down at my feet.

"Is there anything else?"

I shook my head, but met his eyes again. "Will you tell anyone that I'm here?"

"No, Mlle. Giry." His voice was gentle. "No, I think that anyone could be a potentially guilty party, so I will not reveal your status until a kidnapper is caught. The same goes for Christine Daae."

"And St. Juste? If there are more disappearances, then perhaps St. Juste isn't-"

"No, the stagehand is not necessarily innocent due to recent events. The evidence against him regarding Isabelle remains strong, but that doesn't mean there isn't a second possible killer. Abductor, at least. Still, unless there is proof as to his lack of involvement, St. Juste will continue to serve his sentence." He paused as I nodded. "Any other questions?"

"No," I breathed. "Thank you."

He turned to Raoul. "I do, of course, have questions for you, M. de Chagny. Is there another room in which we could chat?"

"Yes, sir." He still didn't meet my gaze. He took the detective into the dining room.

"And," said the detective as they made their way, "is there anyone else in this household? I will need to speak with them, as well."

"There is my maid, Janelle. She is in the kitchen."

"I'm surprised she didn't come out to spy. Most service staff, in my experience, are much more nosy. A very polite maid you have, M. de Chagny..."

Feeling ill, I shut the door.

I didn't come out when the detective left an hour later. Or when Janelle said dinner was ready an hour after that.

And...

And I locked the door. My tears had started again. I didn't want Raoul - rather, Vicomte de Chagny - to see. Even when he apologized. Over and over. I only closed my eyes and pulled the covers over me.

Eventually, he stopped. Eventually the house was still, and I fell asleep.

Restlessly.


	42. Erik

"My dear?"

Christine looked up from her novel. She was sitting on one of the couches in the parlor, a half-emptied cup of coffee on the table in front of her. She smiled at me - a genuine, adoring smile. A thing I'd never received before, from anyone. I was still in shock from last night, when she'd held me in her arms. I still wondered if it was a dream...but then she would smile at me like that and it would remind me:

She thought I was an angel.

Not like Madame Giry thought it. No. Madame believed it in the literal sense. Christine thought I was a man sent by the angels, by God, by her father.

Somehow that touched me on a deeper level. Somehow it made me want to sink to my knees in overwhelming joy. All my life, I'd been considered a monster. Only when I was thought ethereal did people assume anything different. Those who met me in the flesh felt I was a messenger from Hell.

She knew me to be flesh and blood. And she still thought I was a blessing.

"Yes?" she answered, half-closing her book. She kept a thumb between the pages and set it on her lap. I had her full attention.

"You expressed that you wished to go outside," I said from where I stood in the archway. "Do you remember? A few mornings ago."

She tilted her head.

"You had gone to the dock on the lake," I clarified. "To look at the water." I smirked. "It was the morning you decided you were the Ballet Wraith."

"Oh." She grinned. "Yes. I remember."

"Do you still wish that? To be outside?"

"Well..." She looked to my right, not at anything in particular. "Yes. I suppose, yes. But it's not...wise, is it? For me to be out and about in Paris. Out in the street. Even if I'm with you-"

"Who says we are going out into the street?"

Christine stared at me again. "Then where are we going?"

I took a step closer. "Would you like to see Apollo's lyre up close?"

\- - - - - - - - - -

Her grip on my hand remained just as tight, but now there was less of a formality to it. It seemed, now, as though she wanted to hold onto my fingers, not so much because she was frightened of the dark hallway, but more because she genuinely wanted to have her hand in mine.

And I was helpless against it - I was falling harder for her by the minute.

Her.

Because it wasn't just the company I liked - it was her laugh. Quick wit. Graceful but guarded mannerisms. Each word and movement from her made me feel the most intense sort of happiness. I could have watched her do nothing for hours and been completely content.

We turned a corner, and I stopped short. She gasped. Up ahead, at the end of this hallway, was another light.

I held up my lantern, attempting to get a better look. "Jules?" I called.

A pause. "Yes, sir."

I released a breath. Christine did as well.

"It's rather late, M. Bernard," I said, and continued walking forward.

"Yes, sir." He stayed put. "But something's happened. The police..." He trailed off.

I picked up the pace, pulling Christine along with me. "What about the police?"

"They came to ask me questions," he said. Now that I was closer, I could see his expression: wide eyes, tight lips. Paler than usual. "They came to ask my entire family questions. About Christine's whereabouts. Apparently they got word that I was harboring her."

I blinked at him. We were several feet, now, from one another. "Who on Earth would have told them that?"

"I've no idea, sir, and they wouldn't say. It was said to them anonymously."

"Meg," Christine whispered. Jules and I both turned to look at her. She nodded her head, hope in her eyes. "It has to be Meg. No one else would know that." She stared at Jules. "What did you tell them?"

He regarded her coolly. "I said the truth. That you were in my home for a night because Madame Giry and Meg were not home, and then you were sent back to your...guardian." His eyes were on me for only a moment. "None of that is a lie. None of it." He wiped his hand on his pants. "But they didn't love that story, did they? No. Now I am a suspect in your disappearance!"

"Jules," I said lowly. A warning. I knew he was frightened, frustrated - but none of this was Christine's fault.

M. Bernard made his face go slack, losing the rising anger in his eyes, and looked away. "Sir."

"Would you like to be escorted to the surface?"

"I can find my own way, sir, thank you."

"We are travelling that way anyway."

He sighed through his nose. "Then that will do, sir."

"And," I added, as he turned and we all walked toward the world above, "would a doubling of your salary help with any of the trouble?"

He nearly tripped over his own feet. He had to lay a hand on the wall to get his bearings, and then turned to stare at me with his mouth agape.

"Will that be a yes, then?" I raised a brow.

He swallowed. He glanced shortly at Christine, then back at me. "I- That's too generous, sir."

"I'm in a good mood lately." I shrugged. "Good company."

Christine shifted beside me, squeezing my fingers once. I returned the gesture.

"It's...still...too-"

"Oh come now, man; you have a family to feed, don't you? Take the money or donate it to a charity of your choice - it matters little to me. But it will be in your salary all the same. Good?"

He nodded, slowly.

"Good."

\- - - - - - - - - -

The sky was clear and full of stars. Black, endless. But my soul was full, with Christine here on the roof with me.

I came here often when the loneliness and claustrophobia of my enclosed underground home became too much. I would sit here, high above the Parisian streets. High above the rest of society. Always above them. Always below them. Never level with them. Never had been - never would be.

"This is beautiful," she breathed.

I smiled. I thought so too. I also thought she was lovelier - but refrained from saying so.

We were still holding one another's hands, both admiring the sky above. I felt I could stay here forever. I knew, eventually, we'd need to go back down. But to watch the stars with her, never ending - that would be more of a Heaven than whatever lay beyond the moon and stars and sky.

My uneasiness with her, my hurt, had disappeared. The moment she'd held me, it had ceased to exist. Replaced by my previous unfaltering infatuation.

"Apollo's lyre is so much bigger than I thought it was," came her soft voice beside me.

I nodded. "Perspective changes things. It always does. Looking at things in a closer way naturally makes them clearer to the senses."

She nodded, eyes adrift, genuinely mulling over my words. I wondered what, exactly, they meant to her.

"You know," I said then, "they say that when Paris falls asleep, and the city is silent, Apollo comes alive and plays his lyre. It's on those nights that Parisian children have the sweetest dreams."

I half-expected her to scoff or scowl or roll her eyes. Tell me that the story was ridiculous, as she had with the myth of the mermaids.

But she smiled and looked at me, watching me with her blue eyes that sparkled in the moon-and-starlight. She said, "That's a lovely story." Her gaze moved back to take in the night sky. "Tell me more."


	43. Meg

I didn't leave the room the following day, either. Not even for food. There was a pitcher of water still in the room, so I didn't go thirsty. But after over a full day of not eating, I was becoming dizzy. Dizzy with hunger and dizzy with confusion.

Why would Raoul not tell me his name? Why would he lie to me about that?

It couldn't be that he was involved in the killing, could it?

But no. If that had been the case, surely he would have hurt me by now. And he seemed far too gentle for that. I'd heard of men who acted kind but were secretly out to harm women, but I also knew that they often offset their evil tendencies with large amounts of charm.

Raoul was sweet, and though he was mostly confident with me now, I wouldn't have called him charming - not in the traditional sense. Charming because he was lamblike, but he hadn't exactly been brimming with charisma.

The man who'd killed Isabelle had been a wolf.

Raoul was a puppy.

But then why tell me a false name? It made no sense.

In the middle of the day after I'd learned Raoul's true identity, I'd been lying under the sheet, drifting in and out of hazy sleep. I'd awoken, though, at the sound of weeping.

Male weeping.

Uncontrollable.

Janelle's voice was heard, the sound soothing, though I couldn't make out the muffled words. The crying only seemed to intensify.

Guilt gnawed at my stomach, and I pulled the sheets further over my head. He had to have been weeping due to my ignoring him, but I just needed some time alone. To think. To come to terms with the fact that the only person I had to currently trust had lied to me. I couldn't stop wondering what else he'd lied about. What else he would lie about.

So let him feel badly.

And I would have stayed in that room forever had I not had human needs. The moment my daydreams turned to stews and meats and cakes, I knew it was time I found something to eat. I didn't need to speak to anyone. I would find a slice of bread, spread a bit of butter on it, and go back to the bedroom.

Judging by the clock, I was sure to make a successfully quick journey. Twenty past midnight. Raoul would be asleep on the couch, and Janelle will have gone back home by now.

I left the bedroom, barefooted. I kept the door open behind me and padded silently to the kitchen. In the dark. I'd check the breadbox. Hopefully, there was still a fresh loaf there - I prayed it hadn't been eaten yet.

A ray of moonlight poured in from the kitchen window, nicely illuminating the space. I found the wooden box, made way for it, and-

"Meg?"

I yelped and spun, finding a form at the kitchen table. My eyes adjusted enough that I could make out Raoul's face.

I relaxed some, though there was still tension in my belly. "I - I didn't know you were there."

"Sorry." His voice was soft. "I didn't mean to scare you."

I glanced back at the breadbox, but didn't go for it. Instead, I asked him, "What are you doing sitting in the dark?"

He adjusted; I saw his hands go to his head, through his hair. He took a shaky breath. "I've been out here for a while. Since this afternoon."

And hadn't moved, I presumed.

"My brother. He..." Another quivering intake of breath.

At that, I went for the lamp on the wall and switched it on. I nearly jumped when I saw his face - tearstained and puffy-eyed. He winced against the sudden light. When he saw me staring, he looked quickly down and moved his hands to the table, on top of a sheet of paper.

"Your brother?" I said.

He nodded. "I told you he was ill."

"Yes."

"He died." His lips trembled, and he moved the base of his palms to his eyes, as though to stop tears. The paper was exposed now. "I received a letter today."

"Oh..." I whispered. And, against my own current state, I found myself sitting at the table across from him. I looked at the sheet of paper before him and indeed spotted the words "Comte de Chagny" and "passed away" among the scattering of letters.

"I..." His voice shook. "I know I should feel...grief for him. But I don't. I feel...like I miss what we could have been, my brother and me. But I don't miss him. And that makes me hate myself."

"No," I said. "No, I... For the way he treated you, it makes sense."

"But he was my brother. I should be in mourning."

"It...Raoul, it looks like you are in mourning." I leaned forward. "But I think you're mourning the hope you felt for him."

"But not him."

"I think that's all right. It doesn't mean you didn't love him. You can...love someone without liking them. I think love is a complicated emotion."

He at last brought his hands down, but his eyes remained cast on the table. They looked redder than ever.

"I just wish things had been better between us."

"I know." I stared at the letter but didn't read it. "My mother has pushed me my whole life to be a star ballerina. It's made me...resent her. Quite a bit. And it's made me stop liking dance. I know how it feels to be resentful."

"But you miss your mother. You hope she's alive." His words were a mere breath.

I shrugged. "Yes. But my mother was still kind to me. If she hadn't been, I might be feeling the same as you."

He finally brought his eyes up to mine. "Truly?"

I nodded. "Yes. I think so."

Raoul stared at me for ten or so seconds, then extended a hand, palm up. I looked down at it. I knew what he wanted. But I was still...I just...

He sighed. "Meg. I'm so sorry I lied."

I watched my hands in my lap.

"I just...for the first time...I was connecting with someone. And I...I just-"

"Why would your real name bother me?" I picked at a nail.

"Because I didn't want you to know I was a vicomte."

My brows stitched. That was odd, really - I feel that most people with a title would flaunt it as much as possible. "I don't mind what you are."

"Well, perhaps I mind." His chest rose and fell. "Perhaps I don't want to be a vicomte. Perhaps I don't like everything it comes with. The social obligations. The high station. The fact that I'm being always watched. That fact that I know you would have treated me differently if you'd known...been less yourself-"

"You don't know that," I said, and finally looked up. A tear was sliding down across his cheek, his shoulders pulled forward. "I might not have treated you any differently."

He snorted miserably. "Might not have. Might not have. Even you don't know." He swallowed. "It doesn't matter, anyway. You hate me now as it is. So I learned my lesson."

My heart dropped. "I don't-"

"You've been holed up in that room, pretending you don't hear me. So yes. You do."

"I don't." I grimaced. "Raoul...I'm just...confused. Everything has happened so quickly. First, my mother disappears. Then, I find out her glasses are shattered, meaning...who knows what. And now I learn you're not who you said you were." I gripped my knees. "It's not that I hate you...I just...I'm-"

"You felt betrayed," he offered. I nodded. He frowned, deeply. "I understand that. And I...never wanted to hurt you. I didn't. I'm sorry that I caused you grief."

A long silence, and then I moved my hand slowly to the table.

Palm up.

He sighed in relief, and took it.

"Now, at least," I said, "I know your actual name."

He nodded. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

"I-"

"Raoul, it's fine. I see why now. It's fine. Just...don't lie again. All right?"

He nodded rapidly. "Of course," he said, but barely any sound came out.

My stomach growled, and I remembered why I'd come out here.

"Oh," he said. "You must be hungry." He removed his hand and stood. "Here. Let's find something for you to eat."

But before he could turn away, I stood as well and crashed into him, arms around his waist, pulling him into a hug. He grunted in surprise, but then took a shaky breath and held me as well.

"Thank you for telling me," I said. "Thank you for opening up to me. I feel closer than before."

"You do?" His voice was incredulous.

"Yes." I nodded. "I do."

And I did.

That was why, I realized, why I opened up so well to Isabelle. Why her death had destroyed me.

She'd been open with me first. She'd been vulnerable with me.

She and Raoul hadn't seen my tears and demanded I tell them why, as Christine and my mother often did.

They'd bared their own hearts instead.


	44. Christine

Our voices mingled together, creating dancing ribbons of sound in the air, intertwining and overlapping. Mine, I knew, was nothing special. But his - his was colored black and gold and silver and white. Shining, unmarred, a thing of absolute beauty.

The song ended, and the barest sliver of an echo remained in the air. Or perhaps it was the shadow of memory left behind by his voice, staying with me.

He smiled in real delight, sitting there at the piano. "That was beautiful, Christine."

I scoffed but smiled as well; I leaned against the instrument. "Perhaps, but no thanks to me."

He turned to me, looking as though he were ready to scold. "I think I'm a better teacher than what you're implying." He stood from the piano bench. "Your voice is good, Christine. Better than you think. Better than it was when we first met, definitely."

"Due to your expert instruction, of course."

"Of course." He grinned again. He was smiling so much lately. Nearly every time we talked, he seemed to be finding joy in something - and I took joy in that itself. The morning after I proclaimed him to be sent by my father, I'd almost expected to wake up regretting it, feeling like a fool for it. But it hadn't gone away. In fact, when he'd played again, it only solidified, calcified that idea in my mind. He cleared his throat. "Care for coffee, my dear?"

"Definitely." I nodded and went to the couch. "That sounds lovely."

"Excellent. Stay here; I'll be back."

I sat, bringing my hands to my side, palms on the soft cushions of the seat. Looking around this room - at the elegant and dark furnishings, the stone walls with electric lamps illuminating the space, the large red rug under the grand piano - I never thought I'd consider this place like a home. But I did. I was rapidly thinking of Erik's house as a place I wouldn't mind staying in long-term, a place that was profoundly comfortable to me.

I think, when Madame Giry was found, when Buquet was behind bars, I would visit much more often, and for quite a bit longer each time, than I did before.

My grip on the cushion tightened. Buquet. I'd never hurt anyone before, but-

Erik returned, two cups of coffee in his hands. He seemed to balance them effortlessly, not even glancing down at the coffee as he walked. As for me, I had to be consciously steady if I was transporting any sort of liquid from one place to another. I'd spilled far too many times to be careless about it.

I noticed, as he walked, that Ayesha was circling his ankles. I smirked at the little cat - she was lukewarm to the extreme with me, but absolutely obsessed with Erik. It was, in a way, completely adorable.

"Here you are, my dear," he said, and handed me my cup. Milk and sugar - perfectly mixed into the coffee. I sipped at it as he sat next to me, Ayesha jumping onto the couch's arm beside him. In the silence, my previous thoughts returned - the anger I'd felt bubbling hot at that crewmember.

"If it turns out," I murmured, "that Buquet has hurt Madame Giry, I think...I will kill him."

I started at my own words, at the extremity of it, but quickly decided that they were true. I didn't look at Erik, but I could feel him staring intently at me. Analyzing.

"Do you mean that?" he asked.

I paused, then nodded. "Yes. I do." I had no idea how, but it would take very much for me to refrain from hurting him if I was given the chance.

He looked away and took a very long drink of his coffee. I wondered vaguely if he was negatively judging me. I couldn't tell, and somehow I didn't have the nerve to check his eyes for emotion.

"Do what you must, Christine," he said then, "but I will warn you that killing is not as gratifying as it seems. Not after it is done, anyway."

Memory of him saying he'd killed once before, as a boy, came crashing back into my mind, and my gaze finally darted to him. He was sitting up straight, staring into his cup. Though his expression wasn't clear through the mask, I could see a frown. A dullness to his eyes. I swallowed.

"You never did tell me," I said, "what happened."

He inhaled deeply, moving his head back a bit. "Who I killed, you mean?"

"Yes." I wanted to know. Erik had always been surprisingly gentle. To picture him murdering was almost out-of-character. It would have taken someone truly malicious to awaken violence in him.

A long pause, then: "All right. I'll tell you. Since we've decided honesty is the best policy, yes?" He finally looked at me, and I nodded. He did the same and placed the coffee on the table in front of him. "When I was a boy, I ran away from an abusive and neglectful mother and landed in a circus. I didn't want to land there, but the ringleader caught me stealing bread from his caravan, ripped my mask off, and decided that I would be an excellent showpiece."

Nausea roiled in my stomach at the thought. I didn't respond - merely felt my face lose some of its color.

He continued, "I was trapped there for three or four difficult, lonely years - in a cage on wheels, like an animal on display, with the words The Living Corpse carved into the wood in red above the bars that held me. I was made to rise from a coffin in that cage, making lilies around me sing, for an audience of hundreds. Every night - sick or tired or sad, it didn't matter. I had to perform." He grimaced. "One day, he took me out of the cage and attempted to...to hurt me. In the worst way someone could hurt a child. In my fear and anger, I found a nearby rope and strangled him to death, leaving my cage and coffin behind." He looked away, and his eyes were faraway, staring at those memories. "I sleep in a coffin even now." His lips went thin. "That last part was something I never meant to tell you. It slipped out. I apologize - I doubt that's something you wish to know about me."

My tongue was dry. "You sleep in a coffin, Erik?" That could very well be true. I'd never seen his bedroom. It was always closed, and I'd never had reason to go in there. Even if I needed something from him in the morning or night, he was nearly always in bed after me and awake before me.

"I do." His voice lacked any sort of emotion, but his hands had gone taut at his side.

I reached for one of them. Took it in mine. He inhaled sharply and brought his eyes back to mine.

"Why do you sleep in a coffin?" I asked.

"It's fitting. My appearance..." He trailed off, then added. "Besides, before you, the only person who was likely to check on me was Jules - and I thought it helpful to ensure that my body, should I suddenly die, was already inside of or close to a coffin. All he'd need to do was drop me into the lake."

My lips parted involuntarily, the horror and loneliness of that sentiment bearing down on me with such ferocity that I felt tears threaten to form in my eyes. But instead of sitting there and crying from sympathy, I put my own cup on the coffee table and turned to him fully. I wrapped my arms around him, just as I'd done upon deeming him the Angel of Music.

This time, he didn't need to be told to embrace me, though his arms did quiver and he did take a few seconds to recover from shock. Though his grip was comfortingly tight, though it was clear he needed the hug as much as I wanted to give it, it didn't stop the bitterness in his voice as he said, "Don't pity me, Christine. It's worse than fear."

"I don't," I gasped, emotion burning my lungs. "I don't. I'd wear a mask with you in...solidarity. If you want."

He took in my words, and then I felt him shake with light laughter. "No. That won't be necessary." His body was less tense, now.

But I wanted to. I actually did.

"There's a masquerade ball coming up soon, I believe in a week, at the Opera." I said, remembering conversations heard while Erik and I were ghosting through the theatre. I remained in his arms as I spoke. "I think...and you can say no, of course...that it would be the perfect outing, because you already wear a mask, and I could easily hide my identity."

We didn't separate, but even while I couldn't see his eyes, I could practically feel his mind buzzing. Thinking.


	45. Raoul

"It was a pink dress, Albert."

"No, I distinctly remember that it was green."

"Pink."

"Green, Julien; it was green."

Despite Meg looking ready to burst out laughing behind her teacup, I felt a deep sigh starting in the pit of my chest. So I leaned back in my seat and urged, "Go on, please. Pink or green. It matters little."

"Oh, it matters greatly," said Albert.

"Yes," added Julien, "it matters more than anything. Any discrepancy in our memory must be dealt with. Otherwise, we will begin doubting our realities entirely. Want us to end up in an asylum, Raoul?" He grimaced. "I don't think so."

"An asylum," I repeated, succinctly, and Meg snorted. "An asylum for disagreeing over whether your mother wore pink or green one Tuesday afternoon ten years ago?"

"It's the little things, Raoul."

"All it takes is a single mental slip and..." Albert slapped his hands together dramatically. "Into the madhouse you trot."

"Too right, Albert. Too right."

I scoffed and looked at Meg, rolling my eyes at her. She giggled at me before taking another sip of her tea. I smiled back. I wasn't, of course, truly impatient with the twins. I knew they were meaning well - they'd come tonight for the express purpose of checking on my emotional well-being after hearing the news of Philippe's death. And, of course, they'd found a way to stay for dinner - not that I minded much now. I liked their company, liked knowing that my friends cared.

Besides, their shock at finding that Meg now knew my identity had been entertaining enough. Now that she and I were on better terms, and understood one another in that respect, I found I could find amusement in things like this.

The dinner had been a nice distraction from my feelings. My despair had come in waves since the midnight conversation with Meg two days ago, flares of sadness that waxed and waned repeatedly. Her company helped, of course. It was when I became lost in my own thoughts that the guilt and grief returned.

So yes. Them being here was nice. Her being here was definitely nice. I had little room for complaint. It was better than the alternative: being left alone with my thoughts.

"I suppose, of course, Raoul is right. We can settle this matter later," remarked Albert. "Pink or green, she was certainly not happy when she found we'd used the dress for a nest of newborn kittens."

"Kittens!" exclaimed Meg, delight in her eyes. I tried to hide my smile but failed. The twins didn't even make an attempt - their mouths were wide with grins.

"Yes, kittens," said Julien. "A litter of them - six. Orphaned. All black, all nestled there. Our mother was furious - she said that her dress was ruined. Her favorite dress. Luckily, our father took pity on us - and the cats. He let us keep them all, though he immediately also found a suitable blanket for them to rest on."

I'd met their six black cats. All with very unique personalities, ranging from shy to outgoing, from mean to cuddly. Their family owned a two-story house in Paris, so there was plenty of room for all six.

Albert told Meg as much.

"I'd love to meet them one day," Meg said dreamily. I looked at her. She liked animals. Noted.

"And one day, I think, that could be arranged," he said. He glanced at me. "Once this whole...mess is resolved, of course. The few people know where you are, the better. I trust Janelle. I can't say the same for my own service staff." He grinned. "They're lovely people, of course. Just...well, very chatty. Prone to gossip. You know how the help are." He leaned back in his chair. "But, yes, once this woman-stealer is caught, we shall have you both over and you will meet all of our cats."

"And our five dogs, on the farm owned by our uncle, just outside Paris. Well, they're our uncle's dogs, technically, but we've always considered them like ours."

"Five dogs?" said Meg, leaning forward.

"And four rabbits."

"Three pigs."

"Two horses."

"And a partridge in a pear tree."

The twins sniggered. Meg giggled too.

Oh Lord.

She found them endearing.

Despite myself, I smiled too.

"But...yes," continued Albert, "we really must wait until all of this mess is settled." He reached forward to pick up his cup of coffee and sipped at it. From the kitchen, I heard Janelle stacking and putting away plates. "Speaking of which, we did get word from some theatre friends that Buquet is acting quite...what shall we say?" He turned to Julien.

His brother cocked his head. "Odd?"

"Strange?"

"Not himself?"

"Jumpy?"

"Yes," said Albert, nodding. "I think jumpy is a good word for it."

Meg's eyes shuttered. "Buquet." She looked at me. "I had suspected Buquet."

I gave her a knowing look.

"I'm quite shocked that any of the theatre is carrying on as they are." Albert sighed through his nose. "Poor Firmin - you know who Firmin is, don't you, Raoul?"

I shook my head.

"He's one of the managers. The man's absolutely beside himself with worry - you can see it in his eyes. So...distant. He was at a party recently and he didn't seem to be completely there. Every other word was about how he wished he knew of the ballet girls' whereabouts, and that he hoped they turned up soon."

"Poor man," said Meg's crestfallen voice. "He was always kind."

"And hardworking, it seems," added Julien. "He was talking about how he is rehabilitating a hotel to turn into a shelter for the poor."

I raised my brows. "That's quite an undertaking, considering he also manages the Opera."

"Yes," said Julien. "That's what I said. But he did say he loves a challenge."

But Meg's mind was still a topic back. "I do hope they find concrete evidence soon," she said. "Against Buquet. I can't bear the idea of any more girls being harmed."

Her mood, it seemed, had fallen. It remained low for the rest of the conversation, it never lifted when the twins left and it was only me and her left there. We sat in silence for a while, at some point we both picked up a book and read.

Then she approached me with her book and sat next to me, asking if we could read together.

"Aren't we doing that?" I asked. My voice was calm, but her proximity made me feel suddenly warm.

She shook her head. "Could we read the same book?"

"How?"

Meg brought her eyes to mine. "Read to me?" A blush kissed her cheeks. "You don't have to, but it would be nice."

The warmth intensified. I told her I would.

And I did, savoring the feeling of her head on my shoulder again.


	46. Erik

Christine pulled back the napkin of the picnic basket to reveal various cheeses and fruits. She and I were seated on a red blanket in the middle of the roof, high and center enough that I doubted anyone could easily spot us - not unless they were looking. And in the purple evening atmosphere, it was unlikely we would be identified easily.

"This looks absolutely delicious." She plucked a grape and popped it into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed. "And a good thing. I'm quite famished."

"You insisted we stay and eavesdrop on the stagehands rather than go back down for lunch." I raised a brow at her, but I knew my mouth was crooked in a smile.

She sighed. "And we've learned nothing of actual use. Why is the detective so slow in convicting him? Doesn't he have enough proof?"

"Perhaps not," I said, and looked out at the city. "Unfortunately."

A long silence, as I leaned back on my hands watched the sky darken. Peaceful. Content. I hadn't been content - this content - in...ever, think. I sighed. Despite the murder plot afoot, I was happy. Actually happy.

"Erik?"

I looked at her. She'd already eaten half the grapes, and was peeling one in her nimble fingers, mind faraway. She was staring down.

"Yes?"

"May I...ask a question?"

I sat up straight. "I suppose, yes."

Her eyes finally came up to mine, and her hands, still gripping the peeled grape, when to her lap. "You said that you were called The Living Corpse as a child."

A flash of that painful memory went to my mind's forefront. "Yes."

"Does that mean you look...dead?" She held my gaze. "Is that why?"

I didn't say anything for several seconds. I was sure that my silence was telling enough, so I nodded, head just barely moving up and down.

Her eyes didn't move from mine. "May...I see?"

I looked away, all feelings of happiness turning to dust. She'd accepted the coffin, but this-

"Why not?"

"You will hate me."

"No."

I looked at her again. "You will not know that until you see it. Trust me. You will hate me. No one has ever looked at it and cared for me. My mother hated me. The man who taught me architecture after I ran from the carnival did care for me, but I never showed my face to him."

Giovanni. My surrogate father. The man who'd taken me in - he'd never asked to see it, and I never showed it to him. Just before he died, he gave my name to Charles Garnier, who took me on to help build the Opera House. He hadn't asked either. Neither had Jules. I'd become too comfortable, thinking Christine would leave that topic alone.

She looked as though she wanted to push back, argue with me. I could see it in the whiteness of her lower lip as her teeth bit into it. But she sighed and looked away. "All right. That's fine. I won't press it."

"Thank you."

We continued eating in moderately uncomfortable silence, though I was grateful she truly had dropped it. When we finished our meal, we made our way through the hidden passageways, toward my home.

But a bit of conversation caught our ears, made us stare in shock at one another.

Emma Rougeaux had been found dead in the river, in a very similar fashion to how Isabelle had turned up.

We waited over the next twenty-four hours for news of Buquet's arrest to come up. But it never did.

Christine declared her frustration emphatically - saying that the longer Buquet remained free, the more likely it was for another girl to go missing. To die.

As I watched the tears spring to her eyes, her anger and fear, I thought back to her offer of going to the masquerade ball.

And decided it was high time we took matters into our own hands.


	47. Raoul

I sat with Meg at the kitchen table and shuffled the deck of cards, each decorated with silver and gold paint. Extravagant - as Philippe's funeral this morning had been. Janelle had stayed with Meg as I'd gone with the twins on the hour-long journey back and forth from the cemetery close to the estate. I'd blocked most of it out already. Vague recollections of his coffin lowering into the ground, of weeping distant relatives and service staff dressed in black, still bobbed upon the surface of my mind here and there. And I remember clearly asking our lawyer if I needed to return to the estate immediately. He'd said no - that it was my house now and I could come and go as I pleased.

I'd asked Meg if we shouldn't go there instead - it was sufficiently far away from whatever killer was lurking. But after Emma Rougeaux turned up dead, and her mother was still nowhere to be found, she insisted that she wanted to stay here. Her mother could turn up any moment.

And to add to that, the detective finally got back to us, telling Meg that Christine was not with Jules Bernard. Not dead - at least, no body to be found. Just not where she was supposed to be.

At that, she really wanted to stay put. She barely wanted to move from the couch from hearing the news.

"All right," I said. "They're shuffled." And I dealt out the cards, half to her, half to myself. "A game of war. We both place down a card. Whoever holds the better card takes both. The two is the weakest, and the ace beats all. You cannot look at any of your cards, and you must pull from the top. Ready?"

Somber, but present, Meg nodded. She took her cards and placed them neatly before her. Outside, lightning struck far away, but it was enough to briefly illuminate the black night beyond the high kitchen window.

"All right," I said, "go."

We both placed a card face up. She had a Jack, and I had a seven. I nodded once for her to take both, and she did.

"You know, it didn't occur to me the date until Janelle mentioned it today," she said. We laid down two more cards. A ten versus nine, in my favor. I took both. "It's the last week of August."

"Yes." A six and king. She took both. "Yes, I know." Which meant school would start soon. Good Lord, did I even want to attend? It had been more for something to do than a necessity - I'd already been to school and had been far ahead of my class. Anything more was educational frivolity, I supposed. I liked school, but now I had an estate to run.

"That means that the masquerade is on Saturday," she said. "The theatre is taking off rehearsal to have a ball." She chewed the inside of her lip. A nine and king. She took both. "I won't be able to attend."

I blinked at her, noting with sudden sadness the disappointment in her expression.

She misread the look in my eyes and went a bit pink. "I know you must think it terribly silly of me to be worried about something like that while everything...everything else is going on. It is silly. I know it is. I shouldn't be upset about it at a time like this."

"I don't think it's silly."

She went still. "You don't?"

"No. You want normalcy - a distraction. A dance would be perfect for that." I paused, thinking, then put the cards down. I held out a hand to her. "Come. We can dance now."

She looked at my hand in surprise. "You know how to dance?" A pause, then a shake of her head. "Of course you know how to dance. You're aristocracy."

"Actually," I admitted, "I've no idea how to dance. An instructor tried to teach me over the years, but it seems I've two left feet." I shrugged. "You'll have to make up for both of us, Mlle. Prima Ballerina."

Her mouth tilted up in a smile. "Unfortunately, I only know ballet. Not ballroom dancing."

"Then we will figure it out together."

I pulled her to her feet. There was no music, of course, but that was fine. We found a comfortable position in which her hands rested on my shoulders and my hands were at her waist.

No idea what I was doing, I merely rocked from side to side. She smiled at the motion, and I felt that I was doing at least something right.

"This is the sort of dancing I miss," she said softly.

I cocked my head. "What do you mean?"

"Easy dancing. No expectations. Just...moving for the joy of it."

I blew out a breath of pleasure through my nose. "I'm glad you're enjoying it."

"Are you?"

"Very much so." I was. Really was.

A pause, the only sound our feet shuffling on the ground. "I've always wanted to go to the summer ball," she said. "I was too ill to attend last year's masquerade. And the year before that, I wasn't yet part of the company. And as I was only fourteen, my mother insisted I not go - I think she was worried I'd be harassed by older men."

"Understandable."

"But...hopefully next year." She looked away thoughtfully. "This is the first time I've ever had a dancing partner." She giggled. "I suppose I should learn how to ballroom dance if I want to attend the ball, yes? I always just assumed that the man would lead, but now I know not all men can actually dance..." She grinned.

I smiled in return. "This is the first time I've had a dancing partner, too."

Her face softened. She seemed to step in a bit closer at that.

"You must have been dying to dance," I said, "having been away from it for a while."

She shook her head. "No. Not the sort I had to do onstage. All things considered, actually, I'd rather dance with you alone than for an audience of hundreds of cheering Parisians."

I wanted to kiss her then. So badly.

But I refrained. I merely sighed and stepped in closer too. She didn't back away.

We stood there in the lamplight for nearly an hour. Or two. Or four. Or ten. A hundred. I didn't know. I didn't care.

For however long it was, we stood in each other's arms.

And rocked back and forth.


	48. Erik

I'd never in my life been to the masquerade ball. I'd seen it from afar, purchased a costume should the urge ever strike me to go, but I'd never actually attended.

Not until today.

I was the Red Death, wearing a white-skull mask and red robes down to my ankles. Beside me, Christine was the Raven, a full black mask to complement mine, a large black feathered hat, and a close-fitting ebony dress that would have made Madame Giry proud. At any other event, we would have drawn stares; but at this costumed party of extravagance, we were just another two anonymous guests.

Though we'd agreed to act as pretend to be lovers at this event - an act she'd suggested, and one for which my words had stumbled when I'd agreed - it still made me start in delighted surprise when I noticed how close she stood, or when I found her hand in the crook of my elbow. She held her hand there now as we stood over the balcony at the top of the staircase of the theatre's mighty foyer, looking down at the dancers moving gracefully to the music.

"Do you see him?" Christine asked softly.

"No, I don't." For all we knew, Buquet was not even here. But alcohol was being served, and plenty of it. It was unlike the man to pass on free libations. Besides, I doubted he'd be easy to find - not if he was disguised with the rest of the partygoers.

"Perhaps a change of perspective will help," she suggested, looking up at me. "We could go downstairs."

I looked down at the ground floor. "We'd look odd just standing among the dancers."

"Then we should dance."

I whipped my gaze to her, finding her eyes still on me. There was a soft sort of intrigue, curiosity, in her expression as I said lowly, "I beg your pardon?"

"We should dance. My father taught me ballroom dance before he..." Her throat bobbed and she asked, "Do you know how?"

I did. I had learned quickly from watching these affairs before, noting the way the gentlemen moved. Though I'd observed it, taken it in, I had not once given to the idea that I'd one day partake.

"I...do know how," I said, "and although dancing with you would be lovely, my dear, I am uncertain that this is the time-"

"Perhaps by mingling among the dancers, we will spot Buquet."

"I think he would be harder to find. Unless you're under the assumption that he found a willing dance partner, then I don't-"

"I'd like to dance with you," she finally blurted. "I'm..." She bit her lip. "We can forget Buquet for ten minutes, I think. I doubt he will go anywhere in that time, if he's even here. And if he's not here, or if he is but leaves, then we can find another way, another time, to trap him - tomorrow, even. But I've never danced with someone I fancy, and it would be nice. Just for a few minutes."

The world tilted and spun. I stared at her, my vision narrowing on her masked face. "You fancy me?"

Her lips parted and she blinked several times, as though she herself was surprised by her words as well. I imagined that her face was quite red. She quickly turned away; she seemed not to know what to do with her hands. At first, she attempted to brush some hair out of her face (but found that she'd pinned her hair up beneath the hat) and at last decided to put her hands on the balcony bannister. Her grip was tight and steadying on the polished wood and metal.

"And," she whispered shakily, loud enough for me to hear but soft enough that no one else could, "so what if I do? I'm not asking for you to fancy me. I'm not some...silly little thing that will die if her feelings aren't reciprocated..." Christine trailed off, eyes showing nothing but shame and shock.

"Christine," I said, and my voice - normally silk in my throat - had become husky. "I do..." Love you. "I do fancy you."

She turned slowly to me, hands still on the bannister. She watched me with wide eyes, waiting for more.

I held out a quivering gloved hand. "We can dance. Come, my dear, let's join the party." Ten minutes. Ten minutes of disbelieving, dreamlike bliss, and then we'd think about Buquet.

She took my hand. I led her down the stairs.

Christine.

Christine was romantically interested in me.

I wanted to slap myself awake. Surely this was in my sleeping mind. But I knew that even if I did return to consciousness, I'd regret it. I'd want to fall back into this moment - a moment I thought I would never see.

We made our way into the music, into the moving throng. We placed our hands on each other accordingly, and I saw with no small satisfaction that the hint of a grin was touching her lips.

She and I waited for an adequate place in the music, and then we dived in to the dance.

For ten minutes, I wasn't the Phantom - I was Erik. A man with a heartbeat. That heartbeat soared in tempo, much faster than the surrounding music. But my heart itself - that metronome paced the dance perfectly. She was here, in my arms; and if her words were to be believed (and, despite her previous lies, I did believe them) she was falling in love with me.

A month ago, I'd resigned myself to loneliness.

And now...this.

Ten minutes passed; I could tell by the passage of musical notes. Ten turned to fifteen. Fifteen to twenty. I certainly didn't want to stop, and she gave no indication of the desire to do so, either.

But our reason for coming appeared on the staircase, holding a near-empty glass of champagne. Buquet was mask-less; perhaps he'd only recently removed it, and this was why I'd found him now. He chatted merrily with two of his crew, and appeared to be the drunkest of the three.

We were at the edge of the crowd, so it wasn't terribly difficult to pull her to the edge of the grand room. She tripped a bit, and was about to make a noise of protestation, when I turned her toward the staircase and pointed - very briefly, not so long for anyone to notice. She quickly shut her mouth.

Christine and I watched as the two stagehands left him and walked down. Buquet remained standing, sipping at his bubbling drink.

She whirled to me, eyes sparkling. "Are you ready?"

"Are you?" She'd come up with the plan, and I'd agreed to it, but it didn't make me feel any easier. I knew I'd be right behind, ready to strike should anything go wrong. But still.

"Very ready." Her back straightened. "Where will you be?"

"Out of sight, but close."

She nodded. "All right." She took a deep breath and again asked, "Are you ready?"

"Ready."

And we put the plan in motion.

I watched as she turned from me and sauntered over to Buquet, up the steps, until she was right in front of him. With any luck, he was too drunk to recognize her with the mask and hat - but we'd taken no chances. In a hidden pocket in her dress was a slip of paper that read 'Follow me to the dressing rooms?'

I saw her pose seductively before him - and promptly did my best to ignore the flare of fiery jealousy - and pull out that paper. He looked at her intensely, hungrily, before reading that slip. And when he did, his hunger turned to something more ravenous.

I nearly reached for the switchblade in my own pocket.

He gave her a lupine grin and nodded slowly, then followed her as she led him up the stairs and toward the theatre's backstage. I waited five long seconds, then ascended as well. I felt in my pocket, ensuring that I had everything I needed - indeed, next to the switchblade was a small, thin rope, a pinky's diameter in thickness and about the length of an arm, coiled up.

Stay out of sight and stay out of earshot. Should I be caught by Buquet's senses before the time was right, who knew what may happen.

So I kept several paces behind. He was sufficiently enraptured and inebriated that he didn't turn around to look for anyone who might be following. Still, to be safe, I stayed to the shadows (when there were any) and behind corners and furnishings. She didn't say a word as she led him - she didn't have to. Her eyes said it all. And I knew of her disgust for him.

None of it was shown in her body language.

A very good actress. Perhaps she'd chosen the wrong stage role.

She took him at last to the empty hallway full of dressing rooms, stopped him in the middle of the hall, and smiled coyly at him. She put her hands on her shoulders, leaned in...

And I was behind him, yanking his hands behind his back. I took the rope from my pocket while my long fingers were wrapped around his wrists, and then tied his hands together. Christine pulled from her own pocket another item, a long kerchief. She deftly tied the fabric around his head to cover his eyes.

This all happened in the span of five seconds - far shorter than it took Buquet to recognize what was happening in his drunken state.

But he did recognize it, said gruffly, "What the hell?", struggled a bit, and was about to open his mouth to yell -

My knife was at his throat. "Say another word," I whispered, voice dripping venom; I heard him swallow. "And I will slit your neck wide open."

His breathing increased, but he nodded. This, it seemed, sobered him quite rapidly.

He gasped when Christine and I spun him around several times to disorient him, and then we made him walk. Like a good captive, he came willingly - as willingly as one could with their hands tied, blindfolded, and a knife pressed tight against their windpipe. We took him up and down the hall a few times, spinning him around when we made it to the wall or corner to make him think we were travelling through the theatre.

We at last stopped at the dressing room and went inside. Christine, who'd been checking every few seconds to see that the kerchief hadn't come loose, knocked on the mirror. Jules answered, opening it for us to enter. He'd agreed to assist us - he as much as anyone wanted the real killer caught.

We stepped through. Jules closed the mirror door, looking nervous as all creation. But despite his pursed lips and white face, he merely nodded to me as we passed.

And the four of us descended.


End file.
